One with the Snake
by NuncaNiem
Summary: There's something ironic about being reborn; Salazar Slytherin can't just take a break from being Harry Potter. The Wizarding World has changed, but not for the better. It's become everything he had preached for in the past and what he dreads most nowadays. Now he has to struggle against dark schemes against his new life with wit and experience being his biggest weapons, as usual.
1. In Potter's Shoes

_-Chapter One-_

_In Potter's Shoes_

* * *

_"When Death beckons at your door_

_Conceive the anguish of the mind_

_As you quit this beloved terrene,_

_And leave all earthly things behind (1)_

_For all of it shall be sharply missed."_

**I am worth Jade,**

**The ultimate Dream Stone.**

**Drift into the Spiritual World.**

-X-

_(1) Inspired by Robert Francis Astrop's poem in_

_Original Poems, on a Variety of Subjects, Interspersed with Tales_

Slightly modified.

* * *

Recurring dreams made him life hell. They were the sole reason why he _remembered._

The Dursleys never understood the transition. To them, his behaviour inexplicably changed at the age of four and that was it. Foolishly, they wrote it off as another facet of his magical heritage. His _freakishness_, dare he call it.

It was, however, so much… _more._

_His name was not Harry Potter and he certainly did not live with his wretched Muggle family! _He was not. He couldn't be.

The sheer ridiculousness of this stupidly elaborate sham still made him want to rage and laugh hysterically at times. There were too many things wrong with this picture for him to begin to take note of.

For starters, he had perished.

The one wizard known as Salazar Slytherin had passed away a long time ago, in an isolated island, unwanted and alone. And yet… And yet, he found himself skipping centuries ahead, to a whole new life under the name of Harry James Potter.

Another life… Another body... It could only be reincarnation.

Bollocks! Salazar didn't want it. Any of it.

He was but a child. Clearly, for reasons that should remain obvious, he shouldn't be a bloody child! Salazar had been a babe once—a lifetime ago! He'd been an infant. But he'd also grown up to be an adult! And like many others, he had been willing to go when his time had come!

Another life? Injustice for the jaded souls. Some perverse version of limbo imposed on him.

Honestly? Reincarnation wouldn't have been this bad if he didn't have any recollection of his past life. Why, his latest memory was of him. _Letting. Himself. Go! He recalled not wanting to live anymore! _It couldn't get more perturbing than that!

This body was useless! Too fragile, too short, too uncoordinated to be of any use! Perpetually unrelenting, his instincts never stopped screaming at him of the wrongness of his very existence. The sensation of coming to his senses, of suddenly remembering everything you had been but now _wasn't _could only be described like being forcefully crammed into a teeny, tiny box. There was no space to move or breathe in, whatsoever. The shoe—the body—didn't fit him and that was that.

Pathetic, wasn't it? How someone can be reduced to tears just by existing. Salazar had it tough. The transition was very hard for him. Very hard, indeed. And it was so very hard not to allow himself let go. To give up and just—_why not end it?_ Was there any point in continuing?

Yes? No?

Which one?

Depression-

_-despairconfusionlongingsorrowanger-_

The worst thing was... He knew he was whining. Salazar knew he should just accept this as his new reality, and he couldn't deny that it wasn't, but he really couldn't. Not when everything was so raw and fresh in his mind.

It was a questionable cycle he had to live through, this depression of his. Miserable and pitiful. With lots of self-doubts and no morale to speak of.

Unheard of in a four year old.

Not so out of place with an old withered soul.

Was this divine punishment? Salazar often wondered. Why would anyone offer a new start to someone who clearly didn't want it? Hadn't the Fates heard his laments concerning his past deeds in his deathbed? Hadn't he sworn off the Dark Magics forever? Abandoned any circles that supported senseless killings? Salazar Slytherin had begged for forgiveness months before he could become a rotting corpse. Dismissing the fact that there wasn't anybody around who could hear the desperate cries of a foolish man… they must have counted for something!

But he was not given his eternal rest. Apparently, he wasn't even worthy of any semblance of peace! The blissful oblivion he yearned for continued to evade him. Like a mirage mocking a man dying of thirst.

The Fates were clearly at fault here, and their lacking sense of humour being their only excuse for his suffering. For he was _Harry Potter. _And he was only _a boy, _who the Dursleys treated like a servant—who was the laughingstock of the whole neighbourhood—who was a bloody _nobody_ that no one would ever care for.

Except for the chores. Oh, how could he forget about those! It was the chores what was important to little Harry and the sole reason why people noticed him at all!

(The reason why he existed.)

Petunia especially liked it when he watered her flowers. Never too little, never too dry… She commanded absolute perfection for her garden to outshine her competition. Perhaps predictably, not a single thanks was uttered for all the hard work Harry had done for her. And for his part, Vernon liked it when he was tormenting his nephew into making them breakfast. The more to eat, the better. Their pigsty of a son... Dudley just took great pleasure in watching him getting bossed around and the boy would break out in a smug grin every time Harry Potter cried out in pain, reason be damned.

Yes, that was his family. Those Dursleys, who didn't care for him and would rather have him dead than be happy.

But Salazar had another word for them: Muggle.

Muggles were angry and angsty creatures, fearful of the strangers who dealt with the mystical aspect of life. Muggles were people, but just as inhumane as ever and always seen foolishly charging ahead in vain battles of ego and carnage—

Dursleys. Muggles. They intermingled until the terms were almost synonymous.

He'd seen the way they'd look at him. He'd been on the receiving end of such stares—from birth, for all he knew, in both lives.

Gradually, slowly, like larvae that kept growing and seeping poison into his mind, a storm of emotions started festering inside his psyche and he couldn't put a stop to it in time. Before he could do anything, he was far too gone in his depression to actually want to try anything.

_They were just like them._

Everything came to a head when Salazar wouldn't stand for it anymore. _Harry_ may have not known better, but he—_he wasn't JUST Harry, now was he?_ And what Harry had felt, had seen, had lived until the moment of his very awakening, made _him_ seethe.

After all, he'd been Harry Potter. He'd lived as him. Just as mistreated and ashamed of his fate.

_Anger. _Memories piling up and feeding the blazing pyre.

He remembered clearly, agonizingly, how Petunia got into the hobby of smacking him around with a frying pan and bonked him repeatedly on the head—he remembered himself sleeping in a small cupboard, the spiders and their ilk, his only companions—he remembered how, at three only, he was only given the leftovers _he'd cooked for them after getting his hands burned with the boiling water!_ He'd been gifted no toys and received no affection from them. Utter, utter disdain of his needs—what was someone supposed to think with memories like that?!

_What kind of mockery was this?_ Salazar Slytherin, _a Muggle's slave?_ Sod that! He was above this. He was better than this!

He'd crush them. No mercy. None at all, he swore.

That, he did. Salazar hurt them as much as he remembered hurting and didn't stop himself there. And as his insecurities grew and mingled with the child's thoughts and memories, his emotions shattered any lingering trace of self-control left in him. The end result had his temper rearing up with a rather explosive comeback.

The founder lashed out and they'd lived, but just barely.

_But it isn't enough, is it?_

The Dursleys looked as though they'd unleashed a monster upon themselves when he was finished with them. Vernon's spine was snapped in half and more, Dudley's face was melting, as was the rest of his fattened body, and his aunt was screeching from the top of her lungs for mercy as she swelled with a foal in her womb.

He looked at the fear in those eyes.

_No, it isn't._

Rinse and repeat. He had his toys now, but they were too broken to be of any use.

So he erased the foal, restored Dudley and healed Vernon. He would later rid them of their memories so they could function like normal human beings and not tell anyone of the horrors he was capable of.

Until the next lesson began, that is.

"Again." His voice was grim, but the bloodthirsty glint of his eyes told them another story. He would teach them the error in their ways even if he had to descend to their level.

He would beat the fear into their subconscious if it came to that.

For the longest while, Salazar was mere husk of the man he'd been. People were always walking on eggshells around him, even the neighbours. He was constantly snapping at everyone and everything and nobody was safe from his wrath. Even the most irrational things set him off. Like Mrs Figg's little pack of furry monsters, just staring at him hours and hours on end like the creepy creatures they were; sometimes even creeping behind his back in order to follow him everywhere he went. Or the distant mutterings he could hear in the neighbourhood, always disapproving and wary of him, the freak.

And the Dursleys. Oh, the Dursleys…!

Needless to say, his dear family had paid greatly for their lack of tack. It was just so easy. Taking his anger out on them was too frighteningly easy. No regret. No guilt creeping into his heart when he took his frustrations out on them after they had made a mockery of him. Of _Harry Potter. _Salazar always put a lot of care into demonstrating just how utterly powerless they were against him, only to see them cling to whatever remained of their pride.

"Take out the trash, boy!" _Their beds stank for weeks, no matter how much they chose to wash the sheets and mattresses. Incidentally, Vernon recalled having eaten two bananas for desert that day._

"Get into the cupboard, freak!"_ Cockroaches slinked into the house, popped up from the most unexpected places. Dear Aunt Petunia's shriek when she discovered some moving in her hair was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard in this pathetic half-life._

"No! They're mine! You can't play with them!" _Toys deserted Dudley like the possessed vessels they were; the puppeteer orchestrating their break outs never really cared for them and allowed them to disappear without a trace._

Petty revenge wasn't above him. Schemes were fluent in his blood. Forgive and forget wasn't him at all.

Episodes like Uncle Vernon dangling out in the backyard like a broken mannequin stuck on the bark of a tree, with only the crack of his arse as his only support, or Dudley having explosive _accidents_ in the bathroom because the pipes broke each time he sat down to relieve himself, were common occurrences in the house.

And those were the pranks.

Of course, the inevitable happened. The neighbours talked and speculated about the mystery behind the various incidents surrounding that strange family living in Number Four. The Dursley's reputation was razed to the ground over and over again, only to magically repair itself again the next morning. Time reset and the day began anew; ordinary, like any other. Common folk couldn't remember any of Salazar's less than mundane exploits, but of course his victims always did.

They resented him for it. He resented them back. They were little more than mice to his cat. They'd grown to be amazingly resilient and Salazar enjoyed the challenge they represented.

_(He'd break them. No mercy.)_

His uncle's glares and promises of pain were definitely worth the effort put into the pranks and lessons. But Salazar could taste the fear for what it was from a mile away and he was absolutely terrified of his nephew. His uncle never dared to raise his hand against him again. Obviously, there were implications in that—a subtle gesture of submission. As for his aunt, Petunia just tried to avoid him as much as she could, did the chores like she should have in the first place, but she still cursed his name when his back was turned. They'd already tried to call the Bobbies on him and that hadn't worked too well for them.

As for his cousin… Suffice to say, Dudley _learnt_.

Oh, yes. Terrorizing the Dursleys had been a good method of letting off steam. And while he may have reverted to his self-righteous ways for an extended period of time, truth was he didn't care if he had.

_Life was shite_ _and like hell he was going to keep still and take it!_

Salazar had always been one to fend for himself. And _Salazar_ had been the one who had vowed to deliver retribution. This poor excuse of a family wasn't getting off lightly when they had wronged him for so many years.

Marge and her beast included.

_Yes,_ he thought viciously to himself. The boy closed the cupboard and locked the door tight after throwing them all in. _This is how the tables have turned._

And so, the boy enjoyed the agitated barking and the desperate whimpers of his relatives as they pled for freedom.

Their nephew hummed merrily in the kitchen as he made himself a sandwich.

Just Harry, indeed.

* * *

The clocks tick-tocked, birds continued singing and the shimmering sun still rose in the English horizon.

Boys grew.

He was older and, with the passage of time, Salazar knew something had to change.

His mouth knew no filters. He had become rash and eager to jump into silly tiffs with his uncle and cousin. Now that Salazar was bothering to actually _try_ to act more civilized, it occurred to him that he had no control over his temper whatsoever. Presumably, his self-control turned non-existent from the time when he drew his first breath as Harry.

What a scary thought.

And it wasn't just that. There came many shortcomings along with the body. Admittedly, he'd had some time to adjust, but his appearance still struck him as strange even now. His body was so unlike his former looks that in the presence of a mirror even he didn't even recognized who he was anymore.

He was calmer these days. More reasonable. He thought more, accepted more, but he was still not what he used to be. And that unsettled him. Terribly.

This Potter body, even with proper nourishment under his belt, was brittle and unnaturally lean. It went against everything he remembered of himself back in the old days, when he was always towering over people's heads and his physique could handle long-winded fights. At times, the late founder caught himself avoiding his reflection. The mere reminder of him being just a prepubescent boy sent shivers under his skin. Unnerving didn't quite do the sensation justice.

Mirrors were a grim reminder. Salazar Slytherin was something of the past, they always seemed to say. His reflections chaffed him with the evidence of his reincarnation: his unnatural body.

_Maybe this is what reincarnation is all about,_ Salazar thought dryly. The boy in the reflection looked just as severe as he remembered himself being, if not more withered and tired. No innocence could be found in those venomous pools of his. Pity. If things were different, Harry's eyes could have been nothing short of mesmerizing.

Trust his luck to turn its back on him this way. He'd once had an empire at his feet. He'd been someone important—someone just as misled maybe, but _important_. And now he had… _this_.

A present by-product of this reincarnation malarkey is that his new identity had saddled Salazar with an abusive home, a bunch of worthless relatives and one relatively shitty childhood. As he possessed the mind of a grown man and not of a growing child, however, he hadn't been as affected as, say, a true toddler while growing up here. And thank Lady Magic for that, but, nevertheless, the point remained: he'd never asked for any of it.

Even after showing off his aptitude in spellcasting, the neglect he suffered through daily was very real. Salazar had to go out of his way to procure the basic necessities, which his family still refused to give him freely to this day. It was only because this act of defiance amused him that he allowed it. And he _was_ trying to be more humane with his relatives, mind.

It would have been much worse, he knew. Light Legilimency prods into his uncle's brain told him more than enough of their resentment of him, highlighted by the obvious hazard he represented to his family.

The reincarnated man in him seriously doubted they'd even given up their spare room for his use had he been powerless. Magic made his demands relevant. Otherwise, in a true Dursley fashion, they would have locked him inside their cupboard after declaring that the small cubicle was inhabitable, _even after_ recovering his past identity. Again, like when he was just Harry and free of his past life, he would have been belittled and thrown away like trash. They were just _that _kind of people. How they had retained custody of him so far was nothing short of criminal.

Arseholes.

Regardless of that, in many ways, it was relieving to find himself in possession of magic again. It truly made all the difference. The few privileges he had came with his abilities as a wizard.

Magic, the trickiest of blessings. Oh, he was so glad he still had it.

Because of his stupidity, Salazar knew he would have never found solace anywhere during his reluctant stay in Privet Drive. He had scared off too many people, damaged his public image too badly to be considered a true member of the Muggle community. No, he would try to socialize in a few years, make his place in society later, but not now. It wouldn't work out too well if he pushed too much and he actually had no motivation to actually do so.

Looking at his situation from that angle, talking to the random snake in the garden had been a welcomed change of pace. It kept him going in the worst of times and they were useful minions when he was in a tight spot. Angis in particular was the most soothing presence he could have ever asked for. The old snake had taken a liking to him, not only because he could speak to it, but because he was awfully understanding for a cold-blooded animal. It was like the friend he hadn't realized he needed before he had it. The adder had even addressed him as Hatchling, to his never-ending amusement.

"You smell young," Angis insisted, ignoring Salazar's half-hearted protests. "To my tongue, you are one of the hairless monkeys—a hatchling. So Hatchling it is."

Their talks were definitely worth his time. His wayward friend was the first one to notice the ridiculously huge dome of magic leeching energy off of him and also revealed Arabella Figg's status as a Kneazle breeder.

"Foul creatures," the old snake had hissed. Not surprisingly, Salazar agreed with whole-heartily with Angis' description of the furry terrors, remembering how they had liked to feast on his pets a lifetime ago.

But this brought to light a new string of problems Salazar didn't care to deal with.

True, Arabella was not magic, as her weak core couldn't hope to sustain simple spells, but her behaviour was suspicious once you knew what to watch for.

At first, he took to avoid her as much as he could, but her curiosity of him made this task impossible at best. That woman was literally everywhere. She liked to watch him over the fence when he took a stroll around the neighbourhood or simply laid on the garden wasting time. Sometimes, he could even spot her looking at him through the window of her home as he read on his bed.

Salazar deliberately didn't react to her presence the times when she tailed him. The old founder knew the value of discretion and instead of confronting her directly he tried to obtain information through other means.

Like skimming her mind, for example.

Legilimency was an art he'd mastered a lifetime ago, but the skill had turned out to be a huge let down now. The best the boy could accomplish while employing Legilimency was capture feelings, whispers of thoughts that were barely coherent even to the keenest of minds. And, as if that wasn't enough, his Occlumency shielding were equally pathetic or even more so; combined, he couldn't make heads or tails of whatever he could deduce from her. To think, he'd had no troubles with his uncle! If that was not a clear sign of his stupidity, the simplicity of his thought process, he didn't know what would be.

And really. It was bloody ridiculous how different both cases were!

But. There was a small silver lining in all this. Miraculously, Salazar did manage to catch small details from the woman… like the name Dumbledore. Her mind was infested with the damn name, which only added to his growing list of questions and not answered any of them.

It didn't matter. Dumbledore's identity wouldn't be much of a secret soon if he could help it. He'd try other avenues first before turning to violence, as Gryffindor would have done. Unlike that stupid lion, he could be patient when he wanted to be.

And Salazar was also a perfectionist at heart. The boy vowed to retrain himself in the mind magics, if only to master again what had been his pride and joy in the past. Then he would happily dig deeper into the matter and put his suspicions to rest. Or act accordingly, if it were necessary.

The least he wanted was a stalker following him around with ulterior motives in mind.

* * *

He was the one who approached her. She wouldn't face him otherwise.

"Aunt Petunia," Salazar's voice was flat and practically dripping with barely concealed spite.

As expected, the woman jumped into the air with a strangled shriek. Jerkily, she pressed herself against the kitchen counter and fixed her bulging eyeballs on him. His aunt was breathing heavily, her body tense like a cornered animal. With reason too. The last time he had interacted with her, he had breathed fire into her hair and singed off her eyebrows.

"You're going to tell me everything you know about Hogwarts."

Not a request. Not an order. Just a statement.

Her face contorted with panic. She didn't even bother to ask how he knew about it.

Petunia had magic inside of her. An insignificant portion, almost inexistent, but it was still there, regardless. Given that he was magical this time around too, it was safe to assume that she was blood. Her features certainly weren't indication enough, as the house keeper always wore a sneer in her face when she was displeased. He also wasn't her favourite person right now, so he never quite got the chance to see her truly smile. And he wasn't talking about those overly sugary sweet dope smiles she reserved only for her Dudders. Perhaps it was his inner child talking, what remained of the original Harry Potter, but he refused to compare her to his biological mother. Like many small blessings, he'd like to think of her as a good person, unlike Petunia.

Anyhow, he was digressing.

Because she was blood, Salazar never got around the hurt and anger that built inside his chest whenever she was within his eye sight. As such, he felt entitled to coerce information from her. Information Vernon wouldn't be able to give it to him, anyways, as the brute didn't have a single drop of magical blood flowing in his veins.

And unlike the Blood Wards, he didn't need a magic conductive item for this.

A strong compulsion later, she was talking, looking as though she fancied cutting off her tongue just to stop herself from spilling her secrets.

Choosing her had been a gamble, but it soon paid off. Petunia was very quick to admit to the existence of another facet of Great Britain at his prompting, although he didn't appreciate the contemptuous tones in which she spoke of his school. Even so, at least Hogwarts was still standing. He had that much to be thankful for at least.

Salazar sat down on one of the chairs of the room. He allowed her the same courtesy to avoid her inevitable collapse; this kind of interrogation was taxing on anyone.

"Hidden, you say?" he said with polite interest and a mask covering up his true feelings on the matter.

She nodded. "Those freaks," his dear aunt spat, "have stayed out of sight as long as I've known of them. Even when they saunter along our streets, clothed with those despicable robes, they're never spotted! Why, it's as if they didn't exist! Like they should have in the first place!"

Well, this was an unexpected development. Concealment wards in his time weren't elaborate enough to hide their buildings from sight, less full-blown societies. Hence the inevitable clashes with the Muggles.

To be honest, he wasn't expecting anything in particular. For years, he hadn't heard a whisper of anything that may indicate the continued existence of the magical community, but he was glad that it hadn't suffered an abrupt end while he was away.

"Everyone's entitled to their opinion, Petunia," Salazar smirked with a soft curb of his lips. "But you can't cuss someone out only for breathing. It's just not ethic, methinks. Why, in some social circles, people would even go as far as to call you chauvinistic."

Petunia's face coloured unpleasantly and she opened her mouth, no doubt to add something rude to the mix. With a refined movement of his hand, it snapped back closed.

His eyes flashed in warning—a brief reminder.

Petunia retreated onto the back of her seat, cowering, and averted her eyes.

"I'm not in the mood to put up with you or your rants," he informed her coolly. "Are you going to cooperate or are we going to do this the hard way, Petunia?"

Her posture remained stiff even when he dispelled the Lip-Sticking Charm placed over her mouth.

The house keeper gulped nervously.

"I'll cooperate," she said.

But her hand twitched. She was eager for the comfort of a knife or anything sharp. His eyes caught the nervous tick instantly and the intensity of his gaze made her freeze in place. Petunia Dursley didn't dare breathe as Salazar's eyes narrowed only fractionally before his expression was replaced by a boyish smile.

He leaned over the wooden table, still keeping distance between the two. She could feel his breathing on her face as he talked.

"Tell me where I can find this magical world, Petunia," he prodded her softly. "I want the exact passage—no lies, no bickering. I don't want to be forceful any more than you do."

She didn't remember the foal or any of his most serious punishments, but he had trained her well. Reluctantly, she gave the location away.

"The Leaky Cauldron," she said.

The woman spoke slowly, taking care of not saying anything to offend him. It was glaringly obvious who had the upper hand here. And not once the woman dared to lie to his face.

Salazar could only stare at her as he processed the information she was providing him.

A pub! Of all ridiculous things, they chose to make a pub the bridge which connected Muggle and magical worlds alike. Wizards had either gotten more original or stupider in his absence.

"That is all?" he asked.

Petunia nodded meekly and wringed her hands together, nervously.

Well, that had been an informative session. He might as well return the favour.

"Mrs Figg is a Squib," he announced airily, not bothering to soften the blow. Petunia's form couldn't be any stiffer than it was now. "Has the same amount of magic as you do. What a pleasant coincidence, isn't it? Her house is filled to the brim with Kneazles, yet you never saw anything unusual in her or her cats. Too ordinary for you, Pet?"

His aunt either disregarded his jab or didn't care much for it because she utterly ignored it. Her knuckles were white with tension and her age all the more apparent.

Salazar watched… and observed, making no move to console her.

"That—that two-faced liar! He would keep an eye on us…? _No, he wouldn't… _Or would he?! He was to leave us alone if we took care of our end of the bargain! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What do I tell Vernon?! He'll be devastated!" she babbled frenetically, white in the face. Her voice hushed into the faint ramblings of a hysterical woman.

Salazar's interest was picked. Anything that affected his aunt to this extent ought to be from his kin and any information about them was more than welcome. Especially if it was from that bint, Mrs Figg.

"Elaborate," he demanded of her.

"He… That man—! Dumbledore promised us… He wouldn't interfere with our lives if—!"

That name.

"If?" he nudged forward.

Petunia bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, but she couldn't deny the call of his compulsion, which was getting stronger by the second.

"If we took you in… Raised you and cared for you… We would be left alone!" she shrieked, tears stinging her eyes. She hid her face in her hands. "I should have known, though…! I was too naïve! Too trusting! He's the reason my sister is gone and I believed him! And now we have more of those—those… _freaks_ spying on us!"

Spy? What a curious word. Well, it would explain the stalker-ish behaviour he had witness in Mrs. Figg. But, of course, that would mean _he _was the one being spied on, not the Dursleys.

Hysteric, Petunia started rambling, paling more and more as she did so until all the blood had deserted her face. She talked about distrust and twinkly eyes. She went to criticize from Dumbledore's reprehensible choice of garments to his lengthy white beard. Because she was vaguely coherent, Salazar peeked into her mind to get a clearer picture of the wizard she was describing as she continued to find fault with his very existence. Until, finally, she stopped and he still didn't have any significant information aside from insults.

Time to put more salt on the wound. "Tell me more about this Dumbledore. He sounds like a mighty meddlesome fellow."

In truth, she didn't have much information about him in particular, but she did have lots of resentment towards his person. Some of the words she used weren't worthy of repeating in polite company. Summing up her long-winded ramblings, however, it was _Professor _Dumbledore who was Hogwarts' current Headmaster and the sole reason why he was stranded under this very roof.

Instantly, his opinion of Albus Dumbledore plummeted rapidly.

So. This was the man that was in charge of his school and who was also the one responsible for most of his bad luck?

On the wall, the kitchen's white tiles fractured ominously. Dull paintings started rocking haphazardly. Salazar was quite sure that something broke somewhere, probably falling from a shelf or the table, but he couldn't be bothered to look at what it was specifically. The window cracked, small spider webs forming and wreaking the glass bit by bit.

Dumbledore.

Suddenly, he wanted to throttle just about anybody.

"And why," he griped with increasing difficulty, "does he have a say in where I live?"

Petunia didn't have an answer to that question, but her eyes reflected a spark of fear caused by his obvious loss of control.

Salazar still hadn't let go of her mind yet, so he captured the images of a teenager with bright red hair when they muddled into her thoughts. Petunia was broadcasting how the girl's eyes glowed when she lost her temper, how her hair tussled with the sudden concentration of energy cackling in the air. The surge of fear that followed the realization that she had pissed her badly. Apprehension. Wondering if her freakish sibling had finally decided to turn her into an ant, or even worse, blow her up on a whim.

Regret. So much regret and jealousy.

Deep longing, so much it hurt.

_Lily._

The jumbled mess of memories and thoughts was enough of a distraction to make him pause.

The boy breathed in several times and tried to put a tight hold on his emotions. He was only partially successful, but at least the kitchen had stopped shaking.

He thanked his spooked aunt quietly and stalked out from the kitchen and up the stairs. Never to look behind as Petunia dropped onto the floor and buried her face in her hands as she cried her heart out.

Salazar was in a daze.

That had been his mother. Lily.

* * *

Diagon Alley was an interesting place. Organized, diverge and overall pretty neat in comparison to what little they had in the past.

Although their security left much to be desired. Salazar himself, who was more than a little rusty with the absence of his wand, was able to sneak in past the brick wall by very simple means.

He walked up to the bartender and asked him to open the passage.

It was too easy to sneak past the wall. Concelo was more than a sufficient ward to bypass all scrutiny, especially since no one in the Leaky Cauldron was checking for a boy hiding behind a corporeal illusion.

Honestly, it was kind of pathetic. One would think they'd detect things like that, put up some line of defence against this very kind of thing. Checked or something! It was a very serious oversight, really.

But no matter. He wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Salazar had come for a reason and one reason alone. It was high time he did some research on the magical world. Keeping himself updated seemed like a good way to start his reintroduction into Magical Britain. He wasn't exactly fan of surprises and Dumbledore had certainly given him enough of them lately, with whatever was going on with their neighbour, the Squib.

Petunia never did strike him as overly intelligent, but even she had her moments. Her suspicions were worth considering, even if it was only paranoia talking. Though, that was very unlikely, as Salazar was pretty much convinced that the woman was in fact a very inexperienced spy just waiting to be uncovered.

Not wanting to overthink things just yet, the boy kept the spell up as he leisurely strolled about, with no direct destination in mind. People ignored the ordinary-looking wizard as Salazar pushed through the crowd. It was with a lighter heart that the revived founder took advantage of their unconscious dismissal of him and stared discreetly around in secret delight.

This Magical Britain was unexpected, in the best way possible. Salazar certainly didn't remember his world being this… vivid. Bright. Overall, it was a nice change from the Dark Ages. Muggles had been great nuisances even then.

Wizards and witches walked along the streets of Diagon Alley. They laughed, some chatted loudly without any worry weighing on their shoulders. Several made way to the buildings or peered into the stores, no doubt contemplating prices and the stock shown.

There were even families running amok in the crowd.

Two troublesome redheads, for example, clashed against his frame and left running without so much as to offer an apology. The reason why was glaringly obvious when a middle-aged woman chased after them, demanding for an explanation for some misdeed they did to a shop owner. Something about a Niffler and a coin purse? It sounded kind of naughty.

Salazar shook his head. Some mysteries were best unsolved.

2nd Hand Brooms, Amanuensis Quills, Eeylops Owl Emporium, Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, Flourish and Blotts, Slug &amp; Jiggers Apothecary… This place had about anything imaginable.

Out of all stores, one in particular stood out from all of them: Quality Quidditch Supplies.

At first, it was the multitude of people that was gawking at the goods which made his eyes stray in that direction. But then he heard them talking, sounding every bit as enthusiastic as the fanatics who drooled over Muggle sports. Their excitement was contagious and his curiosity only grew as he examined everything closer.

Quidditch. He immediately associated the sport with Football. Both of them had balls which they had to pass and goalies that had to block in order to prevent the players from scoring a goal, but the comparison didn't seem right in the end. Everything was done airborne and on brooms—that somehow could withstand the weight of a grown person in the air? Incredible. Honestly, he hadn't heard anything quite like it before. Wouldn't they constantly worry about falling to their deaths or did they have a safety net accessible to all players?

Apparently not. The sport was too popular to be anything but awe-inspiring. It attracted the reckless like flies to the honey. The adoring fans standing outside the shop, for instance, talked about the sport like a devout person would describe their religion. And although Salazar personally didn't care if Lucy "Lucky" Karoonda or Shizuka Watanabe were better seekers than the other, the idea of levitating brooms was vastly more interesting than a mere sport. Even the enchanted balls were had their own charm in comparison. Each one of them had their role in the game; the Snitch played a decisive one indeed.

Upon closer examination of the Snitch, anyone could see runes engraved in the golden metal. Many of the scribbles escaped his comprehension, however, so many that he resolved to look into this sport to placate his rising curiosity. The broom, on the other hand, was supposedly spelled to be this way and no runes were used in its creation.

Was it possible?

How did one spell something to fly? Was the broom weightless, lighter than the gushes of air? No, it wouldn't be like that. It wouldn't serve its purpose that way, if people were constantly swept in the currents of wind. It would need to be malleable to the wishes of the player and be capable of withstanding the meanest of storms at the same time.

_Rowena would have loved to know the workings behind such artefacts_, Salazar thought, squinting behind his glasses.

In fact, he wasn't embarrassed to admit to be mildly curious as well. He could see the uses in such transport, more discreet and cheaper than travelling in a Muggle airplane. Although it remained unknown to what speeds the broom models could go. It varied from one model to the next, like any fancy technology available to the market.

The boy had to hit the bookstore soon. He was too uninformed for him to be comfortable with the difference between this timeline and his. Salazar was raiding the first library he saw after acquiring the necessary money. History was a priority and spellcasting promised to be an interesting read.

He would have to ask the goblins. The greedy creatures were bound to know where all the gold was kept and Salazar was in desperate need of a few extra Galleons and pounds in his pockets.

If he was lucky, there could be something left of his family fortune. Hopefully. Providing that the Potters had some blood relation with him.

Was he being intentionally obtuse? Maybe. Knowing the goblins though, they'd be reluctant to come to the aid of a ten-year-old… But paying them a visit was a must! He refused to think that he had no money to his name. There had to be a bank or something similar in the Wizarding World to store their savings. His birth parents in all likelihood had some Galleons stored somewhere. He just had to find the place.

Not even his aunt knew how her sister had handled her finances when she was alive. For all he knew, there could be a sealed will somewhere.

He hoped there would be, or he would be robbing his uncle blind in the next months.

* * *

And there it was. His rotten luck—acting up again.

Taking the part of Harry Potter had come with too many disturbing surprises. The name held a weight he hadn't anticipated. And what a mistake that was.

After asking around, he'd been redirected to Gringotts, believing him to be a Muggleborn teen, and once there he had dropped his ward to enter the bank.

In hindsight, he should have done it inside. It was common courtesy, however, as it was widely known, even in his time period, that the goblins didn't appreciate trickery of any kind in their dealings with wizardkind as a whole. Sadly, his clever disguise fell into that category, so he had to remove it before entering.

And, as it so happens, someone noticed him on his way in and promptly laid their grabby hands on his arm before he could enter the facility.

Because they wanted to meet their celebrity.

Of course.

Imagine his surprise, when a stranger started shaking the limb as if a wraith had taken possession of their body.

He could remember that man clearly, even now. The man in question was covered only with tatters hanging loosely on his skinny frame. A terrible smell was coming out from the layers of cloth and had made his eyes water instantly. And, not to mention, with his silly gesturing, the stranger had truly made an impression on Salazar, but not the kind he was hoping for.

_He's positively nutty_, was the first thing that came to his mind.

The man offered him a crooked smile, which let the startled boy see many holes where there had been teeth.

"Harry… Harry!" The stranger pulled him closer, staring with wide eyes. "You do have the scar, you lucky little tyke! You should let me have a go at him sometime, you know? Everyone wants to be our saviour—true, true!—but it's not polite to hoard all the glory, you know! Why, I recall how my family opposed him multiple times… I was responsible for that bruise the prick had in the arse! Ah, goods times, good times… I remember. I really do! It was a nasty hex, that one! Quite proud of it, actually!"

Salazar looked around. He gritted his teeth and contemplated hurling a stinging hex at the madman in order to make his escape.

It was no good. People were watching and he was reluctant to drop his cover.

"Sir… Sir, you're hurting me…" he said instead, as any child would have done in his situation.

"Oh, nonsense!" the man exclaimed. "See this is why I told you to preserve those dragon scales. Stick them all over the chest and they'll keep the body feeders at bay! The Antipodean Opaleye scares them away!"

"Body… what…?" Salazar muttered.

But the man babbled and babbled on as he attracted unwanted attention Salazar certainly didn't want at the moment.

The crowd closed in on them. Salazar felt like he was part of a circus show and nobody had let him in the secret.

Worse, they were talking about him.

"Harry Potter! In Diagon?"

"That's him! Yes, yes!"

"Oh my… Mr Potter, it's an honour to finally meet you!"

People stopped and pointed and gaped, fixated on his still inflamed scar on his forehead.

"You look just like your father… That awful scar, my dear poor boy—"

They tried to touch him. They wanted his autograph, some of his hair; even bear his progeny, if what he'd heard was right. None of them seemed to notice the slightly maniacal gleam in his eyes as they cornered him.

"My daughter would like to meet you sometime…"

"No!" Salazar backed away.

"Please let me…!"

"No!" Salazar snapped. "Unhand me! Didn't you hear me, you dumb oaf? Let go of me!" He pulled at his arm in panic, but the man didn't in fact let go of him. The bloody tosser actually put more effort into grounding him in place.

Throwing caution to the wind, Salazar brought his fist up and punched him directly on the face. The man stumbled awkwardly, his grip loosening as he slurred curses under his breath. The hand that had held him captive was now nursing his cheek.

The woman who had come up with the unusual proposal of having his offspring with her was the first one to jump him.

Shocked beyond words, Salazar side-stepped her and, as she face planted on the ground, he ran into the safety of the bank. The boy pointedly ignored the calls that trailed after him. Fortunately, no one had the stupid idea of following him into goblin domain, but that didn't stop his agitation from showing.

One goblin peered at him as he entered. Took a long look at the scar on his forehead and turned tail on another direction after arching a bushy eyebrow. The creature soon came back with another of his brethren and approached him.

"You're Harry Potter, are you?" one of them sneered at him.

Perplexed, Salazar blinked.

"You're the fifth person claiming to be him today," the goblin elaborated curtly. He lured him out of the room and shoved a small dagger into his hand. "We shall test that claim now, wizard. Cut your palm."

The hair in the back of his neck stood. "Why?" he asked.

"To verify your identity," said the goblin, looking utterly bored.

Salazar frowned warily and accepted the goblin-made dagger.

Seemingly apathetic to his distress, the goblins whisked him away into a secluded office as soon as his identity was confirmed by a strange-looking urn, taking their damn time as they did it.

Luckily, Gornuk, the teller assigned to him, explained in curt tones what the fuss was all about.

The answer wasn't to his liking. At all.

Apparently, defeating a Dark Lord at the tender age of one was a praiseworthy feat to be worshipped about. According to the goblins, there'd been several people trying to get into his vault ever since the end of Voldemort's tyranny.

Definitely not what he'd expected when he had first come here.

But the surprises didn't end there.

He had titles to spare. Lord Potter. Heir of Griffindor. He still was somehow related to one of the Peverell brothers, but not an eligible candidate for the title of heir. As Harry, he was now the owner of seven well-off vaults and several properties across the globe. And not a hint of Slytherin blood flowed in his veins.

Emancipated at ten.

Even more disturbing, when Salazar inquired about the Slytherin fortune, the goblin in charge of the Potter account only jeered derisively and stated it was none of his bloody business.

The former Slytherin Head insisted. After that, Gornuk was very clear about the fate of the Slytherin line and their empty vaults.

"None of them are remarkable or worth mentioning, Mr Potter." And promptly changed the subject.

A goblin telling him that the Noble and Most Ancient House of Slytherin was no longer of importance struck something deep in his chest. Salazar could only nod dumbly.

Time passed slowly when you were in company of the goblins. Their procedures were stressing and prolonged unnecessarily. What is more, you had to sign lots of papers, which you had to read with great care, lest you ended up agreeing to something else entirely.

A normal child would have been tricked easily by these greedy creatures. Salazar, however, understood the fine print. That much was clear when he started demanding the removal of clause number twelve. Donate one twelfth of his liquid assets to the bank for the maintenance of his vaults, his arse.

The boy sat stiffly on his seat and complied with all proceedings. He let them take his blood, once they had sworn on their honour as warriors that they weren't going to use it for anything else.

He was sure that Gornuk was inwardly hopping mad with him for pushing for that vow, but the creature was very mild in his reaction as far as anyone could see. Salazar's newfound fortune made him an important client to the bank. Gornuk understood that much and he was as compliant as his species' pride allowed him to be so as not to come across as rude.

By the time everything was in order, Salazar rushed out from the bank after recasting more concealing spells than he had applied at the beginning of this journey.

It was a very rich, but decidedly dazed Salazar Slytherin who exited Gringotts. His recently-produced key vaults weighed very little in his pockets, yet that didn't diminish the impact of the sudden awareness of his established heritage.

Being emancipated wasn't all bad; in fact, it played in his favour, but…

Around his middle finger in his left hand rested a white gold, unremarkable ring. It was a far cry of what it really was. There was no crest, no anything that could indicate that the ring was anything worthy of a Lord, whatsoever.

That, however, could change depending on the wearer's intentions and at the moment, Salazar was keeping this development under wraps as long as he could. And he had made sure that the goblins kept it that way as well. Gornuk was honour bound to comply with his wishes, as decreed by the latest treaty between wizardkind and goblinkind, which had been written down at the end of one of many conflicts between the two species.

The thing, however, weighed heavily in his mind as he hurried along, all too aware of it constricting his finger.

He had no desire to expose his lineage to the world. As Harry Potter, he had already too much on his shoulders already, that much was clear. If word got out that he was Lord Griffindor besides Potter, the measly worshipful loons he had stumbled upon in Diagon Alley would pale at what could come next. The Lordships were merely decorative titles, Gornuk insisted, but Salazar doubted that titbit would matter to anyone with a sheep mind-set.

When the time was convenient, he would announce it, but until then…

Recalling the disaster earlier that day, Salazar shuddered violently. Whist a lifetime ago he would have rejoiced at the amount of followers he probably had, he was now, quite frankly, thoroughly creeped out. He had to reassess his situation thoroughly. He was clearly not the nobody he'd expected.

Speaking of which… Salazar briefly had considered using Potter Manor as shelter from the world before utterly dismissing the option. The Blood Wards would detect his disappearance almost immediately and he wasn't prepared to confront the caster just yet. Staking everything on the privacy of the Fidelius would be a foolish move on his part—at least for now. He was still weak, loath as he was to admit it. One stalker was more than sufficient and the current one was harmless to boot. He'd be crazy to exchange that with a strong wizard/witch capable of subduing him anytime they wanted.

_Know thy enemy._ Salazar was beginning to see a pattern with the Muggle expressions.

But his decision didn't mean he wouldn't visit the place and begin researching into his ancestry. Just because he was still weak now didn't mean he would remain so for long. Family magic would be a huge boost, if there was a grimoire lying around in his family home.

He had to admit that it was a huge plus that he was the Secret Keeper of the Potter residence. Even the goblin that had mentioned the location during the Will's reading had forgotten instantly about it, confirming the effectiveness of the active charm.

The will in itself was interesting enough. The name Dumbledore showed up as one of the witnesses to its creation. When asked, Gornuk confirmed that he was the sole living witness to outlast Voldemort's regime.

There was no mention of him being his magical guardian, and despite that the man had taken the role upon himself and placed him with the Dursleys, even though James Potter had insisted quite adamantly on the contrary.

Dumbledore. Mighty meddlesome, indeed. The old coot was sitting at the very top of his black list right now.

It was a testament of his willpower that Salazar hadn't blown up Gringotts during the hearing. The rudimental Occlumency shields this body had managed to build so far and the strong goblin wards surrounding the building had also helped greatly there. Still, he was thankful none of the prideful creatures around detected his small lapse in control. That would have made for an ugly discussion and he had no desire to provoke a fearsome warrior race unnecessarily, nor he had time to explain himself.

The boy didn't stop moving until he was back into his room in Little Whinging, panting and huffing.

Salazar let himself in the house and completely ignored his aunt when they crossed paths on his way to his room. Petunia didn't dare ask and he wasn't about to give away the information; that was how things worked, for the lack of a better term. Salazar only allowed himself to think about what transpired in Diagon Alley after he had regained some semblance to calm.

But seriously. He? Defeated a Dark Lord? Irony at its best! Ha!

"The world's gone mad," Salazar groaned and buried his face in his hands.

He needed answers. Desperately. Right now.

Fortunately, he knew just who he had to ask and Angis was all too willing to help him out with this task.

* * *

The next day, the old snake was wrapped itself snugly around her fragile neck.

"Her fear tassstes great," commented Angis joyfully, sticking out his tongue. Bobbing slightly, the forked appendage was quick to snatch up the woman's tears, which were two uneven rivers on bare skin.

"I know," Salazar hissed, watching from another chair.

The Squib shuddered violently.

"You're not Harry Potter! You can't be him!" she shrieked.

"But I am," Salazar smirked.

"Liar! You speak to snakes!" Mrs. Figg insisted rather stubbornly.

Salazar smiled. Under the light of the crescent moon, his expression came across as rather sardonic. "Oh dear… It seems like there's been a misunderstanding. Everyone calls me Harry Potter, madam. That's my given name! I've lived in this neighbourhood my entire life! You're my neighbour, though, you should know."

But Mrs. Figg was already shaking her head.

"From your expression, I assume that you wanted me to turn out very differently," he said. Casually, he offered her a piece of cake, not offended in the least when she didn't take him up in the offer.

"You-? What are you getting at?" her voice cracked. Mrs. Figg twisted inside her bindings, but froze instantly when Angis grew frustrated with her and snapped at her.

"Please don't hurt me," she pled, glance going to the reptile and then to him. "I didn't do anything to you!"

Salazar ignored her.

"You're a busy woman, Mrs. Figg," he said with a mien of false awe. "Your interest in me is very annoying, as is your affection for your pets. They're a pesky bunch, those creatures. I was willing to overlook them, until you crossed a line I cannot ignore."

Mrs. Figg whimpered, "Keep my cats out of this!"

"But they aren't just cats, are they, Arabella?" Salazar interjected smoothly. Green gleamed darkly, directly at her. "You know exactly what they are."

"Brood eaters," Angis coiled further with a disgruntled hiss.

Mrs. Figg recoiled. "I don't know what you're talking about. My cats are cats. You're going in circles. Clearly, you're out of your mind!"

Salazar arched one of his eyebrows behind his glasses.

"Kneazles," he said, with the conviction of someone who just knew they were right. "Kneazles, woman. You breed them with cats and sell them to any wizard that's interested in half-breeds for pets and familiars."

"You're mad, boy. You're mad, you hear me!"

Denial. Well, he wasn't about to let that deter him. "And you… Mrs. Figg, you are a Squib."

The woman looked as though she had been slapped. She let out a funny noise from the base of her throat. "No… No, I'm not…"

"I must say… you must be the most incompetent spy I've ever met," he said, watching as he dropped the bomb on her. "Anyone with the right instincts and an ounce of intelligence would have figured you out sooner or later. I must been truly blind not to do so earlier."

Arabella Figg looked as though she was going to be sick.

"You're wrong..." she told him feebly. She couldn't look at him in the eye. "I am not spying on anyone..."

"Liar," Angis denied immediately.

Salazar sighed.

"I hope that you're comfortable," he said, dragging his chair closer to his prisoner. Mrs Figg flinched at the loud screech. "Your capture was an impulsive decision of my part. I'd like to assure you that I don't kidnap people on a daily basis, but things made this a necessity. You have information I need and hopefully you'll see my side of things when we're finished with this session."

"Session?" she squeaked with a dry mouth.

Salazar nodded. "We'll be completely honest with each other. You more than me. Look at it this way, Mrs. Figg," he said cheerfully. "We are in your house," he tilted his head, "alone..." His voice lowered to the sultry tones he used when he was threatening someone. "You are defenceless against my magic, Mrs. Figg. Even better, Dumbledore hasn't come to rescue you yet, so you can't hope for his intervention."

"Who are you?" her voice shrilled, meeting his gaze in an effort to appear more dignified.

"I took care of your pets," he said, smiling. Her eyes grew, horrified with the news. "We're truly alone at the moment. Nobody will interrupt this conversation."

Salazar ignored Mrs. Figg's reaction, proud of this small victory.

"A tragedy, really. I didn't know they would react that badly to the sulphur. They must be out of town by now..." he hummed.

"You dared—why would you—who—who are you?!" she yelled at him.

Salazar paused and looked at her. He couldn't help himself and chuckled at her stormy expression.

"I'm Harry Potter, ma'am," he bowed slightly, almost mockingly. "I live next door. It's a pleasure to finally meet you properly."

She glared.

"Impostor," she spat. "Harry Potter is only a boy! He's not supposed to know about magic! He's no Parselmouth! He's a little boy about to go to Hogwarts and discover the mysteries of magic!"

"Oh, I see you have a schedule," he drawled. "Where were you all these years? I've never been 'only a boy'. And if you really think you're right, you've only deluded yourself by thinking contrarily."

She huffed and turned her nose up.

Salazar rolled his eyes.

"I'm assuming that you're only a pawn in a bigger picture here," he said softly, "but, I'll give you a fair warning, Mrs. Figg… You do not want to test my patience. I won't hesitate to force the information out of you if anything else fails. And I promise you in advance that it won't end pleasantly for you that way, my dear."

He let that sink. The Squib gulped and Angis expressed his approval verbally.

Salazar produced a creased tabloid from his pocket and held it up for her to see. It was the _Daily Prophet,_ inall of its sensationalism glory.

Mrs. Figg took it with shaking hands.

"POTTER_ NOT DEAD! ALTERCATION AT GRINGOTTS! DUMBLEDORE IN DENIAL!" _she read aloud. She froze and gaped at him.

Salazar's eyes glinted.

"Mind loosening your tongue now, Mrs. Figg?"


	2. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

**A/N: **Long time no see. Oh, look! Here's a chapter! *le gasp*

To make things clear, dear readers: I write for the sole purpose of being better at writing and having fun with this fandom. Reviews asking for more won't do much but stress me. I want honest reviews: Did you like it? It was horrible? What can I do to improve? Keep my interest in this project- there's a review option. Use it wisely.

It was fun to maneuver around cannon and yet respecting some parts.

And btw... a beta wouldn't be much to ask?

**EDIT: **JUST PASSING BY BITCHES XD

* * *

**Disclaimer:** No.

* * *

_-Chapter Two-_

_The Good, the Bad and the Ugly_

* * *

"Morning," said Hagrid to a goblin. "We've come ter take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter's safe."

"You have his key, sir?"

"Got it here somewhere," said Hagrid, and he started emptying his pockets onto the counter, scattering a handful of mouldy dog biscuits over the goblins book of numbers. The goblin wrinkled his nose. Harry watched the goblin on their right weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals.

"Got it," said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden key.

The goblin looked at it closely.

"That seems to be in order." (1)

"Actually, Hagrid," Salazar spoke over the other's tenor. "I'd like to go into my vault alone."

He eyed the key the half-giant held discreetly, unnerved by the presence of another mean of access to his galleons. The boy didn't ask where he got it, as he had an inkling of the answer, but he immediately resolved to remove this potential threat to his family fortune.

"Oh, well-" Hagrid said unsurely. "I'm not sure if I'm allowed ter leave yeh alone, Harry… Professor Dumbledore said-"

"I'll be fine," Salazar cut in smoothly. He offered the Half-breed an appeasing smile. "There's nothing to fear in Gringotts, right, Master Goblin?"

"Nothing at all, Mr. Potter. Our bank guarantees the safety of our clients for as long as they stay," the Goblin said.

It took approximately five seconds for Hagrid to reach a decision. Reluctantly, he gave Salazar the gold key that by all rights should have been his and scratched his bushy head, looking like he was sucking on a particularly sour lemon.

"Righ'- no, nothin' ter worry 'ere at Gringotts," said Hagrid. "I should 'urry. I'm meant to do summat 'ere anyway."

As Hagrid went away with Griphook leading him into the vaults, Salazar addressed the nearest Goblin.

"I'd like to see Gornuk. It's a matter of utmost importance. Tell him it concerns my vaults and I'd rather have this issue resolved quietly."

Salazar was escorted into his teller's office immediately after.

Gornuk looked exactly like he remembered him and his working place still reflected the seriousness and professionalism that the Goblin exuded. Salazar sat down being the perfect epithet of tenseness. His teller excused the other Goblin with a dismissive wave of his hand and they were gone in a jiffy.

Now positive of their privacy, Salazar didn't hesitate before bringing down the golden key on Gornuk's desk. To his credit, Gornuk didn't bat an eyelid at this.

"There are other keys with access to my vault. How many are they and who has them?" Salazar demanded without raising his voice.

Gornuk picked up golden artefact and examined it closely.

"This key has Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore's magical signature," he said. "It was entrusted to him upon the death of your parents because your other guardian, Sirius Orion Black, was sentenced to Azkaban, allegedly due to crimes such as murder and treason. The Goblin magic in this key appears to be undisturbed, however…" The creature appeared to be rather cynical of this finding. "Which, in turn, implies- of course- that it hasn't been in use for several years. Upon your emancipation, this key can be used to extract money from all of your vaults."

Salazar breathed in deeply.

"I want this key and any other ones that are in existence to be stripped of all their magic," said Salazar. "Only the keys in my possession will be usable in extractions and deposits; if I want this order overruled, I will tell you so, but until then no one except for me has to be allowed access. Do I make myself clear?"

Gornuk nodded his head curtly. "As you wish, Mr. Potter," he said. The creature snapped his fingers and the key glowed softly for a few seconds before the light was cut off suddenly.

A parchment appeared in front of Gornuk.

Putting on his golden-trimmed glasses, Gornuk took it from the air and read out loud, "It has come to our attention that on August 1st three keys pertaining Lord Potter Gryffindor's vaults have been confiscated by order of our client due to management issues. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Bathilda Bagshot and Sirius Orion Black's properties will be returned when an acceptable course of action is met with all involved parties."

"When you say 'all involved parties' you are only referring to me and you, I presume."

"You'd correct in thinking so," said Gornuk, showing his teeth. Salazar knew better than to take the sharp-edged curve of his lips as anything but a polite smile.

The boy nodded, satisfied by the bank's swift actions.

"The keys are now useless, correct?"

"Yes. Indeed, if anyone approached Gringotts they would be turned away immediately."

"Then return them to where you found them," Salazar said. His green eyes acquired a cool glint which was met with approval by the other occupant of the room. "These keys here," he gestured to the now useless artefacts lying between the two of them, "can't be missed by his owner, after all. It's not in my nature to rob someone of their possessions. I prefer to think I'm above petty theft."

"An admirable resolve, sir."

"Thank you, Gornuk," Salazar straightened in his seat. "Now to more mundane matters…"

After a one hundred galleons' worth extraction, Hagrid was reunited the boy he knew as Harry Potter. The Half-giant beamed at the sight of him and Salazar, knowing that his money was truly his now, beamed back at him. He didn't think twice before handing over the golden key to Dumbledore's spokesman.

Together, they started walking out of the bank.

"Do yeh 'ave yer money?"

Salazar nodded. "I'm all set."

"That's good ter hear," said Hagrid. "Now, we'd better start looking fer everything in yer list- yer wand comes last. We'd better leave tha' fer later. Never good ter spoil the surprise, ain't it? Yeh're gonna love Ollivander's…"

Hagrid's jubilance was rather contagious, despite Salazar's primary wariness. Now effectively neutralized as a threat, he felt at liberty to relax somewhat in his presence. Or maybe it was the Keeper's eyes which convinced him of his gentle nature. Either way, he was looking forward to spending time around him.

As a bonus, he had his very own bodyguard within reaching distance. It hadn't gone unnoticed that he hadn't been mobbed by wizards yet and Diagon was still very much crowded, as much or more than in his last visit.

In this tour, however, Hagrid, acting as a guide, started explaining all he saw animatedly, although what he missed, Salazar pointed it out. It was a very productive conversation.

Soon, Salazar was the proud owner of at least a dozen books, a cauldron and a telescope; the rest was going to be bought as Madam Malkin took his measures at her shop. Salazar gave Hagrid the money with no apparent discomfort and wished him luck with a boyish smile.

Though, of course, all pleasant things had to come to an end. Madam Malkin's Robes for all Occasions… The shop itself was nothing too out of the ordinary, but her some of her customers were less than charitable to him.

It started normally, as everything did before the storm. Two blonds were already inside, one taller and broader than the other, but in essence their appearance was very much alike. When he entered, blond Junior was posing for Madam Malkin; the squat woman in mauve was finishing a robe for him. The woman was clearly in her element, although what she was designing for the boy looked ridiculously elaborate for someone so young.

At the sound of the bell's ringing, the older blond looked up from the newspaper he had been reading. He took one look at his face and then adopted a rather petulant air of arrogance and pompousness. Having experience with this kind of sort, Salazar branded him as an upper-class citizen immediately.

"And who is this?" the man drawled as he stared him down.

"Bond," Salazar said without inflection. "James Bond." He didn't quite know why he chose a fictional name after the one movie he remembered watching at the Dursley's, but at the time it had seemed reasonable enough.

Seemingly taken by surprise for a second, Senior took his time to think of a proper comeback and the younger of the two took this chance to have his say in this conversation.

"A Mudblood then? I don't recall anyone important going by that name," Junior sneered derisively. "What's doing someone of the likes of you in this shop?"

"Now see here, Mr. Malfoy…" the woman seeing to the blond boy's needs protested feebly, pausing in her sewing to reproach him.

The older man spoke over her soft voice.

"Draco, you have to address all witches and wizards with the respect they deserve," said the older one with impetuousness, "even if they are wearing less than respectable robes" - the emphasis was impossible to miss- "or tell lies to their natural superiors."

Salazar raised his eyebrows, his face placid in face of the open hostility, but he was, in reality, quite pissed off. Worse still, Malfoy's attitude reminded him of himself. There were even brief references of the pure-blood ideology he so detested at the moment.

"Mr. Malfoy, I presume?" he said, "Whether or not my name is James Bond is none of your concern. Regardless of what you think you know about me, you have no right to speak so uncordially to me, especially when we haven't been properly introduced." Salazar stepped right into the man's personal space and extended his hand. "Hullo, sir," Salazar said, "I see that my reputation precedes me once more. My name is Harry Potter and while I would like to say that it's a pleasure to meet you, that would be lying."

"Harry Potter?!"

_"You_ are Potter?!"

Exclaims of surprise sprang from the background.

Senior Malfoy didn't speak, but he grasped his hand with as much force as he was exerting at the moment.

"Lucius Malfoy," he greeted in silky tones of ice. "I have to admit, my first impression of you isn't quite what I was expecting."

"Then either you have too many expectations or you allowed yourself to think poorly of me prior to any actual meeting." He squeezed his hand like a cobra. "Considering this isn't the first time it's happened, I'm forced to wonder why everyone thinks that they are entitled to make hasty assumptions regarding my person. Supposedly defeating a self-styled Dark Lord shouldn't make someone this popular- or as important."

Lucius almost winced. Something flickered in the man's eyes.

Salazar noticed and released his hand. Something about Lucius Malfoy oozed malice and he wasn't very keen in touching him again.

"Madam Malkin," he called, "are they done yet?"

"Just a little bit more, dear," she responded, her voice thick with tension. She was on her final touches now.

Salazar nodded, not allowing his eyes to stray from Lucius'.

His body was tense, reacting to a familiar magic he swore it felt somewhat familiar, yet not quite the same. Trying to pinpoint it, Salazar traced its source with his eyes until he determined that it must originate from Malfoy Senior's inner left forearm.

Concentrating briefly, Salazar came up with a startling discovery. There was a flux of toxic magic which dug into the arrogant man's magical pathways, fuelling a course of constant corruption just by being there. The source of the energy felt wrongand Salazar had the sneaking suspicion it was leeching off Lucius' magical core; it pulsed with unmistakable intent, one of servitude. It was some of the blackest magic.

"The Wizarding World must be dangerous in the extreme," he said airily, yet not loud enough for their two eavesdroppers to hear.

"What nonsense are you spouting about now, Potter?" Lucius regarded him warily.

Salazar hummed, "Your arm… I wonder who branded your arm?"

The effect was immediate. Lucius blanched and made to reach his wand. Salazar didn't let him take aim, slapping his wrist with an accuracy which wasn't foreign among snakes.

Lucius' wand clattered to the ground.

"You- you Half-blood filth! How dare you attack my father!"

Malfoy Junior started wailing something related with calling the Aurors and arresting him for physical assault, but none of them paid him any attention.

"You- you-" Lucius shook with indignation, red up to his ears, whereas Salazar maintained his composure, relaxed and seemingly carefree.

"I've got to say, my interest in you has soared considerably, Mr. Malfoy," said Salazar, green eyes flashing with the curiosity of a predator. "I'll make sure to pay extra attention to the Daily Prophet. Lucius Malfoy… You know, now that I think about it, your name feels familiar. I must have seen it somewhere in the headlines today- something about being concerned about my heath and whatnot- and frankly your friendship with the Minister puzzles me. Your closed-door activities must be most interesting..." he trailed off and leaned over to whisper in his ear. "Have you slit some poor soul's throat lately, Mr. Malfoy? No? I'm afraid that my perception of you has irrevocably changed during this meeting. A pity, as the public somehow has the impression that you are an upstanding citizen- not short in money, it would be my best guess, if your donations to Saint Mungo's are of any indication."

Lucius let out a strangled growl as he recoiled away from the scheming boy. His hands twitched with murderous desire and intense violence urges. A feral promise seemed to want to escape his mouth, but the blond held it back with herculean effort.

Madam Malkin cleared her throat and in the process brought them back to reality.

"You are free to go now, Mr. Malfoy. Please, do show yourself out."

Salazar smirked at the obvious trepidation they heard in the woman's voice.

"This isn't the end of this, Potter," Lucius hissed angrily.

Salazar wanted to give the wizard his wand, just to spite him, but he wasn't sure he wouldn't attack him if he turned his attention away from him.

"I didn't think so. No," the boy smirked.

* * *

Admittedly, the Malfoy confrontation wasn't the most exciting event of the day. Hagrid got him an owl, which he rather liked- and a beautiful one too, with snow-white plumage and an intriguing mothering personality.

He named it Noctua, after the constellation sitting on Hydra's tail. Luckily, the owl seemed to like it as well after much deliberation. He hoped she and Angis would get along.

After that, there was Ollivander's.

The wand-makers in his time were a bit dodgy when they were asked about the obscure art of wandlore. It got increasingly difficult with time to find anyone with the tiniest bit of information on the subject and at the same time be willing to share those secrets with strangers. But that didn't apply to Ollivander. No… In fact, he seemed honestly impressed by his open admiration for wand crafting.

"I don't get many people interested in wandlore, Mr. Potter, but you might be a wonderful exception to that rule," he said.

The mere idea of remaining ignorant in the intricacies of such a crucial tool seemed utterly vexing to Salazar. There were many uses in knowing your weapon from the inside out. Ollivander was neutral in his opinion when he voiced that out, but he seemed to be a tad amused by how vehement he was being on the matter.

Salazar couldn't understand how someone would turn away any valuable source of information, especially if the source was a master in their element. As a testament to that, he was enraptured by the flow of knowledge just pouring out from Ollivander's mouth, hanging to every word he said. He would later compare the information with any texts he read.

"The core of a wand is a magical substance placed within the length of wood," Ollivander said, putting in display hairs and dried bits of dragon flesh on the counter. "They are usually bits of hair and feathers extracted from some sort of Magical Being or Creature. The materials used for wand cores can vary widely, though certain wand-makers, just like myself, may prefer to use certain materials; for example, I encourage the use of phoenix feathers, dragon heartstrings, and unicorn tail hairs, whereas my father used lesser substances such as Kelpie hair and Kneazle whisker. (2)"

"It's all about preference, I'm afraid," the old wizard chuckled merrily.

Salazar soon discovered that Ollivander could preach forever about the properties of wood and cores, but unfortunately they didn't have forever in their hands. They did, however, schedule a meeting the next Monday. Salazar was looking forward to it.

As they exited the shop, Hagrid appeared relieved that it was over.

"Merlin, Harry! Yer excited about wands, eh?"

"That's putting it lightly," he said with a smile.

"There must be books in Hogwarts about wandlore," Hagrid said thoughtfully. "Yer gonna have ter ask Madam Pince, though. If yer really inter this then yer gonna have to investigate some."

_There better be_, Salazar thought, torn between feeling angry and remorseful. Years after its construction, the castle would continue to haunt him because the memories he shared there with his late friends from a time of old.

Oh, how the mighty fall.

And speaking about torn, he didn't know how to feel about his new Holly wand. In Ollivander's words: "I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather — just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother —why, its brother gave you that scar." (2)

That last bit was bloody terrifying.

Bloody buggering fuck. If anything, Salazar didn't believe in coincidences. And he didn't like the vibes he was getting from this.

* * *

_1st September 1991_

The train was on the move, well on its way to its destination.

Salazar was sitting alone, yet quite content in the empty compartment he had chosen for himself. _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ was open on his lap and at the moment he was skimming over the Zombie section.

According the author, they were stretched very thin across the world, with the exception of South America, where their extermination had been put on hold as of late.

Simply fascinating.

Many things had changed over the years, Salazar was beginning to realize. Zombies weren't even in existence in the 10th century- or none that he knew of. The only thing that could compare to them was the Inferi and yet they were vastly different. Salazar was intrigued by this flesh-eating creature: the similarities between the two species suggested that someone had butchered a Necromancy Ritual and had accidentally created another type of creature in the process.

Salazar Slytherin was very experienced in the intricacies of Dark Magic. Dark rituals were temperamental little things… You had to be very meticulous when dealing with them, lest be faced with consequences beyond one's imagination. In this case, the boy mused, either the wizard who was performing the ritual was reduced to an animated corpse or the ritual was partially successful, but far from being what the Wizard had first expected.

There was no mention about the zombie submitting to anyone's will- something that was elemental with the Inferi. Zombies would wander about aimlessly and attack anything with a pulse, their sole purpose akin to a werewolf's primary directive: propagate the pest.

Luckily, however, Zombies weren't long-lasting, which brought him back to the idea of a butchered ritual. Wizards may have decimated them left and right since their birth, but it was their unstable bodies which had made them die out as quickly as they did. Rotten flesh fell apart easily, and with no matter to sustain the animation, the magic keeping them moving automatically failed.

For the record, that didn't happen with Inferi. The corpse puppets could be mere bones, but they would still keep coming.

Enraptured, Salazar continued immersed in his reading until he felt a pull tug at his chest, reminding him of what the Dursleys had been attempting to do in his absence.

The boy sighed in frustration.

"Torpy!" he called.

Not a pop later, his House-elf was in the compartment. He was shaking in joy. Had he looked up from the book, he was sure he would have spotted tears leaking from his eyes.

"Master calls, Master calls Torpy!"

"Yes, Torpy," he said. "The Dursleys are at it again. Would you mind stopping them before the wards activate? I'm afraid they wouldn't survive the experience."

"Right away, Master! Torpy takes care of Fatty Father, Horse Pet and Ruddy Duddy now!" he chirped before he vanished.

Salazar coughed a laugh at the names and turned the page.

Having a House-elf was a first to Salazar, but he would be the first to admit that Torpy was a valuable asset to him. It was a shame the creature's mind was basically in shambles, though that had the unexpected advantage of making him utterly devoted to the last living heir of the Potters. Obviously, that meant him.

Touching the parchment of his book, an idle air about him, he thought of his first visit to Potter Manor. He had discovered Torpy in the kitchen, barely skin and bones due to his weakened state. The House-elf vowed to serve him as soon as he saw him, forming a bond with him while joyfully telling him that he had been waiting for the Little Master to come back to them.

Death plagued the Potter family.

In the backyard of the manor, there was a small cemetery of three next to the woods. He would have probably missed it if it weren't for Torpy leading him there to offer his condolences and respects. There weren't any tombstones making their resting places, but instead the fertile soil grew flowers where Torpy assured him that his parents and brother laid in peace.

House-elves were woefully dependant in their owner's magic. With him and his parents gone, Torpy's family had slowly but surely started to succumb to their weakness without any magic to sustain them. It must have been horrifying to watch and experience first-hand. No wonder why he had broken.

Torpy made another appearance shortly after. His eyes were bigger than ever, almost to the point of bugging out from his sockets, and they barely hid the desperate glint the House-elf possessed when it came to do whatever he had ordered him to do.

"Torpy made them stay, sir! But Torpy is sorry to say that there's no car no more! Bad Muggles didn't take Torpy seriously. And Bad Muggles shouldn't have tried to hit Torpy!"

Salazar smirked vindictively at that. "Cor, Vernon will have a fit! He's obsessed with that thing. My only regret is that I won't get to see his reaction. Well done, Torpy!"

"Torpy lives to serve Harry Potter!"

"Yes, yes," said Salazar; he tried to be patient and placate him at the same time. "You've done well, Torpy. Please inform me of any happenings in Hogwarts- anything relevant to my safety will do. I wouldn't put it past Dumbledore to try something before I arrive."

Torpy stared blankly at him. "House-elves stay at Hogwarts. They wash, clean and be bound to Hogwarts' Headmaster. They'll know Torpy is there."

"Then try to blend in with them," he instructed. "They shouldn't suspect your true alliance as long as you work there. Pretend to answer to Dumbledore. I'll call you as soon as I have work for you to do."

"Yes, Master…" Torpy murmured reverently.

Too much adoration in those eyes.

"Go," he said, trying not to appear too perturbed.

Torpy grinned crookedly and vanished from sight.

After that, he expected the rest of the trip to be spent in the quiet. The compartment door was charmed against meddling folks, which proved to be a wise decision from his part, seeing as how many people peered into his compartment and had tried to enter when they saw just who was sitting there.

There was a particular redhead who had been trying to get in. And he was by far the most troublesome of the lot, although Malfoy's spawn's comeback had later taken him by surprise. There was a bloodthirsty gleam in the blond's eyes as he rapped on the door. To their credit, they hadn't given up straight away, but his magic was anything but resistant. Soon, the two brats had stormed off, determined to spend their time on other things rather than waste their time trying to break down a ruddy door.

Unfortunately, Salazar would discover sooner or later what Malfoy did instead.

There was no warning whatsoever. One moment he was alone, and then the other the compartment door slammed open and a boy stumbled inside. Salazar was on the verge of cursing the intruder until he saw his haggard appearance.

There was no mistaking the panic in the boy's eyes. Pale, limbs trembling and ragged breathing…

"What happened?" he asked, his voice brooking no arguments.

"There's people- outside- started hitting us-"

Salazar narrowed his eyes, catching only part of what he said. "What?"

The boy swallowed. "No time," he muttered to himself, "gotta get someone to help."

Salazar pursed his lips and pushed the pale child aside in order to look through the glass.

He managed to spot the source of the commotion. On the far end of the corridor, he saw at least two people twisting in sharp movements. Salazar took a wild guess before moving into action.

He didn't bother muttering an incantation before his features took another appearance. Salazar made his body larger and older, with the express purpose of looking intimidating to children.

The boy watched the change, agape.

"Don't say a word," Salazar warned him before he left him inside his compartment.

Salazar walked in large strides, his whole posture broadcasting confidence and a touch of righteous indignation. Neither of the emotions was false, and he used his inner turbulence to accentuate the effect of a figure of authority.

"What's going on?" his voice boomed across the corridor. All of the perpetrators stopped doing whatever they were in the middle of and turned to look at him, their faces dropping their sneers in shock.

Standing, there were three boys- a group of children who couldn't be more than second or first years, he noted- but in the middle of the mayhem was one girl who looked on the verge of tears. Two out of three of the males looked like they rather belonged in a zoo than in a train going directly to a prestigious magical school. Until the moment he had announced his presence, Salazar had seen those two yanking the girl's hair each time they were commanded to do so by their leader. Another boy with a rounder face sat on the floor awkwardly, holding his wrist as if it was broken. It probably was, judging how his breathing hitched each time he moved it.

Clearly, there were two victims. It didn't go unnoticed by Salazar that Malfoy Junior was the one who seemed in charge of the two bullies.

"You three," he said, not bothering to listen to half-hearted excuses and apologies, "I'm going to speak to the Headmaster about this incident. And I'll make sure I make your lives hell if I catch you red-handed again, understood?"

"Who are you?" Malfoy asked daringly, sneering at him.

Salazar smirked. "Someone who will expel you if you three don't step away from that poor girl. You have already broken one wrist on this day and my patience grows short."

Looking faintly green, the two miniature brutes released the curls of the crying girl's hair.

"You can't expel us from Hogwarts!" Malfoy protested loudly. Heads started peeking out from the compartments around them.

Salazar tsked in irritation. "I can and I will. Last warning, Mr. Malfoy."

"But-!"

"Last warning," he warned.

"Fine!" Malfoy sneered, "But my father will know about this!" He turned to go. "Crabbe! Goyle! Let's go!"

"But what about-? And the-?" One of his minions hesitated, gesturing at Malfoy's pockets. Squinting, Salazar saw the tip of a wand sticking out from the depths of the blond's uniform.

"And leave the wands you stole behind, Mr. Malfoy," he interjected. A small animal jumped. "That toad looks like it longs to be with his owner."

Looking like he had swallowed something sour, the blond boy stalked up to him and all but shoved the two wands and the pet into his hands. Malfoy glared darkly at the boy who had tattled on him unknowingly. Salazar expected a major smack down later coming from him.

Wordlessly, Malfoy stormed away, with his fellow bullies trailing behind, exchanging clueless glances, but not risking a glance over their shoulders.

Salazar didn't move until they were out of sight. The boy that was cradling his wrist was standing now and his skin looked terribly inflamed where the bone had broken. "What are your names?" he asked them quietly.

"I'm Hermione Granger and his name is Neville Longbottom- Are you just letting them go without assigning them detention?" The girl was justifiably incensed.

Salazar stared impassively at them. He handed over their possessions, immobilizing the toad to ensure it wouldn't escape the injured boy. "Follow me," he said.

Both the boy and the girl followed behind, the boy meekly and the girl looking like she wanted to cry and rage at him at the same time. It was quite a startling expression to have on such a young face.

The boy who had warned him of the bullying hadn't left during his short absence. He looked up at their entrance and smiled in relief when he saw the people who had come with him.

"You helped them," he said.

Salazar nodded, "Of course I did."

"Excuse me, but he did nothing! He just threatened them and then let them go! Did nothing more, nothing less!" Hermione Granger said shrilly.

"Actually, Hermione…" Neville piped up shyly, "He did get us out from that situation. It could have been much worse."

"But- but- he's a Professor! They attacked us and _he let them go!_ He didn't even assign them a detention!_"_

Standing in the sidelines, the unnamed boy winced in comprehension. "Ah… maybe he can't assign detention." He looked unsurely at the disguised Salazar.

"What are you talking about? Look at him! No adult would be here except for the school staff!"

"If I may," Salazar cut in before this could turn violent, "I'm in disguise."

Before anyone could comment on what he had said, he allowed his spell to fail, revealing to the others how he truly looked.

Neville Longbottom and Hermione Granger went quiet, Hermione due to shock and Neville because he would recognize this shapeshifting ability everywhere. Out of all of them, he was the only one who had been raised like a Pureblood and as such he knew more than the others what this meant.

His excitement pushed away the pain.

"You're a Metamorphmagus!" he blurted.

Salazar frowned. "What?"

"Surely you know what your skill is called? You know, the ability to change shape at will! You cannot learn it; you have to be born with it. Copy other appearances; change the length of your nose, the shape of the eyes… That kind of stuff!"

"Clearly he doesn't," Hermione Granger said matter-of-factly. "Maybe he knows of it and how to use it, but perhaps he was never referred as one."

Well, that was one useful cover if he ever saw one.

"I was raised with my uncles, in a non-magical household if that's what you mean," he said helpfully. "I knew I could do it- change my appearance, I mean- but this is the first time I hear of the term."

"So… you're you Muggleborn like us?"

"I dunno. My parents died when I was little," Salazar lied. It was a pretty white lie, he could do worse. He looked at the only person whose name was a mystery to him. "What's your name? I can't keep addressing you as 'boy'."

"Oh," he flushed. "I'm Justin Finch-Fletchley, but you may call me Justin. Wicked scar, by the way, Potter."

"Potter? Harry Potter?" Hermione Granger was in shock. "Are you the one who appears in _Modern Magical History _and_ The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century? _That Harry Potter?"

Salazar kept himself from rolling his eyes, but it was hard. "Which books? What do they say?"

The young witch beamed. "Why, you're the one that finished off He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, of course! Don't tell me you haven't heard about what happened that Halloween, ten years ago?"

"What's new? All I need to know is that my parents probably died protecting me and they somehow put the tosser down when I was one years old. This rune on my forehead," he tapped it impatiently, "doesn't really mean anything."

"That scar… You are the only one who has survived the Killing Curse, Harry. Everyone knows that the… Unforgivables," Neville swallowed thickly, "are nasty pieces of Dark Magic. And Dark Magic leaves traces on those affected. In your case, that scar."

"You mean he tried to kill a baby?" Justin Finch-Fletchley asked, aghast. "And somehow Harry managed to defeat this… murderer without even trying? He sucks."

"They say that the Killing Curse rebounded on him," Hermione Granger explained, but she was too horrified now that she was witnessing evidence of that fateful night on what she assumed was a defenceless boy her age. Her voice dropped lower, "He obviously wasn't expecting Harry to defend himself-"

"Look," Salazar cut in, "I don't remember anything about that night, all right? Why are you so sure he cast the Killing Curse on me? They didn't even find a body, I don't even know if anyone was there to see that happening. So maybe Moldyshorts is still roaming about somewhere in the globe and I didn't kill him at all. Think about it. There are too many inconsistencies to tell what's the truth and what's not." He let them stew on that for a moment, panic descending on Neville Longbottom more heavily than on the two muggleborns.

Salazar reflected that Neville was still injured and started taking out things from his bag.

"How are you doing that?" Hermione Granger asked.

"Better question yet… What are you doing, mate?" Justin Finch-Fletchley's voice followed.

The problem with children, Salazar knew, was that they asked obvious questions all the damn time.

"It's a bottomless bag," he explained, making sure his voice was even. "Now, where was it?" he asked himself. Salazar asked the bag for the only Healing Magic book in his possession, making a show of taking it out with a cry of triumph. "Neville, maybe you'd want to see this."

The eleven-year-old walked up to him and peered inquiringly at the title. He paled and looked at Salazar with a strange expression.

"You can already do complex magic?" he asked.

"No," Salazar gave the lie freely, "but your wrist is hurting you, so it can't hurt to try."

"Ehh…" Neville stammered, "I should wait- I mean, thanks, but I'd rather go to someone who has more experience."

"Oh, Saint Mungo's?"

Neville shook his head. "No, there's a Hospital Wing in Hogwarts."

Salazar shrugged. "Suit yourself." He put the book back where it was.

"Where did you learn to charm a bag like that?" Hermione asked. She was looking at the bag reverently, as if she was trying to dissect it with her eyes.

"I didn't," Salazar explained, although he had every intention to do so in the future. "I bought it in Diagon."

"Wow," Justin whistled. "I should look into one of those."

The rest agreed, nodding.

Finally, she couldn't take it any longer. "How many books do you have in there? How much weight can it carry?" Hermione Granger asked.

* * *

The train slowed right down and finally stopped. People pushed their way toward the door and out on to a tiny, dark platform. Harry shivered in the cold night air. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students, and Harry heard a familiar voice: "Firs' years! Firs' years over here! All right there, Harry?" Hagrid's big hairy face beamed over the sea of heads.

"C'mon, follow me — any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!" (3)

First years were led to the boats and across the Black Lake. Like the others, Salazar allowed himself to admire openly the sight of his castle after years of separation. To this day, his greatest regret was to abandon such a wonderful place behind.

Waving to Hagrid as they parted, Salazar lulled himself with the knowledge that he was once more inside Hogwarts. The air hummed with magic, flying past them like tidal waves of pure energy. Anyone who was looking for it would be immediately mesmerized by the amounts of wild magic present around them.

Salazar knew, however, that it was not wild at all. Hogwarts was designed to have a will of its own and at the moment the ambient magic was embracing him like an old friend welcomes back a long lost best mate. It nearly brought tears to his eyes.

They walked, crossing rooms and corridors, following Professor McGonagall with a distinctive nervous unease that comes with the fact that they were experiencing something new. He was of course talking about the rest of the children and not himself. He already knew that they were going towards the Great Hall- he had expected it even- but it was always good to know that some things hadn't changed over the years.

McGonagall suddenly paused and asked them to remain in place. The Professor basically left them stranded in the middle of nowhere.

Understandably, everyone gathered there started fidgeting in anticipation.

"How exactly do they sort us into the Houses?" someone asked.

"Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking." (4)

"A test?" Justin groaned.

"I have no chance of entering then," Neville muttered glumly.

"Nonsense," Salazar said rather smartly. "I rather doubt Dumbledore would allow torture in his school."

"But what if _there's_ a test? Oh, my God. I would have studied more if I had known. I only know Lumos, Colovaria, Tarantallegra and Illegibilus." Hermione grimaced. "I can already see my score. My parents aren't expecting me back this soon!"

"You think that's bad?" Justin said, panic-stricken as well. "I don't know _anything, _Hermione!"

"Of course you wouldn't," a voice rang out from behind them. As they turned, it became obvious that Lucius' spawn didn't know when to desist. A permanent sticking charm seemed to attach a sneer to his face. "A Mudblood like you doesn't have any business here at Hogwarts!"

Around them, children were torn between crying out in outrage at his racial slur and looking on in confusion. Justin looked every bit as confused as Hermione.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy! I've never heard someone say anything this repulsive in all my life! You'll be having words with me after the Sorting, young man." McGonagall had returned and her strict countenance had steeled itself at his insult. "A night of detention with me, regardless of where you're sorted!"

"But you can't-!"

"Mr. Malfoy, don't _try _me."

Draco Malfoy was silent after that, but Salazar could smell him plotting his revenge already, even if they hadn't had a hand in his punishment.

They entered the Great Hall quietly. Four different tables were bustling with activity, chattering and glancing around. Salazar picked up on someone commenting on how odd it was that there were no ghosts in the Beginning of the Year feast before Hermione could start relating her findings in _Hogwarts, A History_.

"It's bewitched to look like the sky outside," she informed them.

"You're pulling my leg," muttered Justin.

"Am not! The founders were splendid spell casters- each one had one speciality in particular."

"And who cast the spell on the ceiling?" Neville asked.

"Salazar Slytherin," Salazar muttered in a subdued manner before Hermione could tell them.

She blinked rapidly at him. "Well, yes- that's correct."

They didn't talk much after that. And that was all right, because Salazar was having a hard time concentrating.

Everything had a history here. The tables, those candles, the tableware, the intricate design of the enchanted roof encasing the room above their little heads… So many memories were stored in those precious objects. Good and bad.

Salazar tried not to think.

Before he knew it, they had arrived to the place where the Sorting would commence.

Professor McGonagall silently placed a four-legged stool in front of the first years. On top of the stool she put a pointed wizard's hat. This hat was patched and frayed and extremely dirty. (5) Salazar would recognize Gryffindor's Hat everywhere.

All the people at the front table turned to look at it, as all people sitting on the lengthy tables were, he supposed.

All that expectation and all the Hat did was open a rip near the brim, not unlike a person would open their mouth to speak. It quivered after a moment and muttered something that wasn't quite what everyone was expecting: "Welcome back," it rasped and fell silent.

Rounds of conspicuous murmuring erupted and the first years were immediately more nervous than ever.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, looking every bit as bemused as McGonagall. "We'd better continue with the Sorting then, Minerva," he encouraged her.

"Oh- Of course, Albus," she fumbled with the list in her hand. She coughed to clear her throat and then announced, loud and clear: "Abbott, Hannah!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat.

"Bones, Susan!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat again.

"Boot!"

"Brocklehurst!"

"Bulstrode!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

Like a countdown, Professor McGonagall called someone to the front and dropped the mangy Hat on top of their heads. The only options were clear: Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. Gryffindor for the reckless, Slytherin for the power-hungry, Ravenclaw for the brainy types and Hufflepuff for the hard workers.

Salazar was still power-hungry, in spite of himself.

"Finch-Fletchley, Justin!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

Neville, Hermione and he clapped in congratulations as the boy went to greet his new family. Justin glanced back and beamed at the three of them before turning to talk to someone in his table.

Hermione was next. And then Neville.

The boy leaned over to whisper something into McGonagall's ear. The woman glanced at him and his hand and then nodded curtly.

"She'll be here shortly," she said.

Afterwards, the sandy haired boy was sorted into Gryffindor, to be reunited with Hermione Granger. An exasperated woman walked over to him and gave him something to drink. Neville made a face after drinking the concoction.

Predictably, Lucius' spawn went to his House.

It wasn't until later that it was his turn.

"Potter, Harry!"

Salazar expected it, the attention. He had time to ponder if he'd ever have any privacy at Hogwarts before he went and faced his fate.

He didn't expect this.

His heart hammered furiously and rang in his ears. He sat on the stool. And the Hat fell onto his head. Salazar was preparing himself for the mental onslaught when…

The Hat yelled, "GRYFFINDOR!"

_What?_

"Not my decision," the Hat said, not unkindly. "The Headmaster wanted you placed in Gryffindor."

His first reaction was to stay still. His eyes felt unnaturally big on his face and his heart skipped a few beats. He gaped. He did not understand-

Then he felt the anger.

McGonagall had already taken the Hat out of his head and was on the process of ushering him away from the seat when it happened. Every candle in the vicinity snuffed out without any warning.

People cursed and screamed. Some tried to get up- stupidly, because they fell to the floor when they misjudged their steps and the distance with their housemates. Their cries of surprise and pain filled the room, agitating everyone more and more-

Someone called forth light with their wands.

"SILENCE!" Albus Dumbledore commanded. "Stay where you are! Every student who knows the Lumos charm, I address you at this moment. Please let it be light."

Hundreds and hundreds of wands lit up in the darkness, allowing him to see despite the dark surroundings.

"Minerva, escort Mr. Potter to his table."

Knowing that it wasn't prudent to snap in front of so many witnesses, he allowed McGonagall to hold his arm and take him to the Gryffindor faction. Salazar reminded himself to relax, but he couldn't- he couldn't when he knew that this was a set up.

He had been placed in that fool's house.

"Calm down, Harry," Hermione muttered into his ear. A shiver ran down his spine and he edged away from her slightly. Luckily, in the darkness she wouldn't see it. "The Headmaster and the staff are working on the candles."

"It's hard," he said, not exactly knowing why. Admitting weakness was not in his nature.

Hermione was silent, but an arm snaked around his shoulders.

Salazar tensed momentarily, his muscles reacting to years and years of absence of human touch. Consciously, he forced himself to relax and yet did not quite accomplish what he had set to do.

His head hurt too much for that to work.

* * *

(1) Taken from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, property of J.K. Rowling

(2) Taken from Harry Potter Wiki, wand cores

(3) Taken from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, property of J.K. Rowling

(4) Taken from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, property of J.K. Rowling

(5)Taken from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, property of J.K. Rowling


	3. Straw Dolls

**A/N: **300 FAVOURITES! WOW! THANKS GUYS!

Hello people! Guess what? You don't have to wait another millennium to have your next update! Bow before me XD

On a more serious note, things are starting to be serious here. And don't worry about me killing off characters. Just because they are gone from the playing grounds, if you will, that doesn't mean they don't have a role to play :3 I'll just have to keep you wondering what role that is XD

This chapter would have gotten too long if I added more content. Don't worry I have plans for Snape and the rest of the teachers, but don't be afraid to leave ideas. Even PM messages are welcome in this matter. (STILL IT'S AN ACCEPTABLE LENGHT!)

* * *

**Disclaimer: **Sadly, no.

* * *

_-Chapter Three-_

_Straw Doll_

* * *

_He remembered Godric Gryffindor. Redhead, impetuous, a right pest to anyone who went against his wishes._

_More child than man._

_Time was a strange thing. People nowadays considered him as the epitome of righteousness, the founder who favoured muggleborns the most._

_A legend._

_A saint._

_Pure Light._

_Lack of taint._

_He was none of the above._

_If anything, Godric Gryffindor was an accomplished warrior, with unparalleled swordsmanship skills to back up most of the foolish decisions he made in life._

_Last he had heard from him, he had died in glorious battle, with two swords poking out from his gut, but sadly not a moment before he managed to procreate. He died in the blaze of glory, just like he and the rest of his ancestors had always planned to adventure into the afterlife._

_Be it as it may, however, Salazar Slytherin had had the dubious honour of being one of the contemporary heroes of Godric Gryffindor. From the start, he was to be the elegant, but always darker counterpart of the two. In all probability, this came from his reputation as the next heir to the Slytherin line, known for their ruthlessness against all enemies._

_It wasn't undeserved, however. His family had the slaves, the weapons, the armours, the contacts and the wealth to prove it. They were someone to be feared and as such they thrived on the respect that fear caused in the hearts of men._

_Salazar was raised to be great. As a Slytherin, he had to accomplish the unthinkable, be defeated by no one- be it wit or battle- and climb higher and higher up the social ladder than his ancestors ever did._

_("Be cunning and outsmart others, child. Take any window of opportunity they leave open and always strive to be superior to your peers, my dear Salazar.")_

_So when a family friend, who was close to the Gryffindors, informed his father that one young man was in the process of implementing an ambitious project- the construction of a school, of all things!- which involved the education of generations and generations of young witches and wizards, he encouraged his son to take part on it._

_Seeing the same profits his father saw, Salazar didn't hesitate to agree._

_On that same day, the Gryffindors and the Slytherins struck a deal._

_To see the construction finished, the Slytherins had sworn to provide the experts and give as much human labour as needed to be done. Godric Gryffindor would provide the land and the materials in the endeavour._

_Later, much later, half-way done almost, the Ravenclaws and the Hufflepuffs would join them to finish the castle, investing some funds in the project as well. Their Family Magic would be instrumental in the strengthening of the castle's wards and additional forms of protection._

_Rowena would give away some of her book collection to the school and stock the library with every text she stumbled upon; Helga would start out as the school's Healer in charge, taking two or three wizards as her apprentices to teach them the ways of the Healing Magics._

_At some point, however, they ended up teaching themselves._

_It was a gruelling struggle and by the time the castle was finished, Salazar's parents had already passed away and he was Lord Slytherin, to be betrothed to his future wife- but they had done it._

_Their cries of joy mingled with the moonlight of the incoming Samhain._

_And thus, Hogwarts was born at last._

* * *

Albus Dumbledore saw his Deputy approaching the moment she stepped into the light. While her wand wasn't lit, she wasn't stumbling and crashing with anything in her path. Once again confronted with evidence of her success in human transfiguration, Albus' confidence in her abilities as a cat animagus was renewed. Certainly, her sight was far sharper than a normal human's, which served her well in this instance. A simple Lumos spell was unnecessary where she was concerned.

But dearest Minerva looked a tad too sour to appreciate her natural knack for navigating in the dark. Albus' himself looked far dimmer than what he normally portrayed himself to be. Put simply, he was quite vexed as to how this could happen.

"Minerva," he said as a way of greeting, "I trust everything went perfectly with our students?"

Her lips pursed thinly. "As perfectly as we can hope to accomplish in these circumstances, yes. Except for a few exceptions, everyone has been instructed to follow their prefects into their dorms." She shook her head sadly. "I'm afraid Poppy will have her hands full tonight. Many children twisted their ankles and at least one girl has fractured two of her bones as she was trampled on by the other students. The poor thing was in tears as I carried her to the Hospital Wing."

"I see."

"What made all those candles blow out like that, Albus?" she asked. She was honestly bewildered about this phenomenon. In all her years in the school, she'd never experienced anything like it, neither as a student nor a teacher.

"Alas, I'm afraid I don't hold the answer, Minerva. I'm every bit as lost as you," he said. The candles he had bewitched alight again were some of the only ones burning in the entire room. The conjured flames flickered weakly and they gave the ancient wizard the impression they wanted to drown in wax. "This is most unusual but the students will have to eat in their dormitories. Do make sure to send a notice to our House-elves. It would be a waste not to serve all that food when we have so many bellies in fine need of nourishment."

"Of course, Albus, but…"

But the Headmaster wasn't in the mood to hear protests tonight. Genially, he continued speaking, "In the meantime, we'll continue investigating. So far we've only revived one hundred candles with the help of our staff, but I'm more of the opinion that we have to learn the countercurse to this spell if we intend to achieve more than just a reaction."

Indeed, this curse was most troublesome. Above NEWTs level, definitely. Filius' continued efforts at this were simply extraordinary, even so without the help of the Elder Wand. So far, he'd been the only one to conjure a stable flame upon two candles. Why, he had been the one to suggest an alternative to Incendio! Bluebell flames had proved to be far more resistant to the magic affecting the candles and they had lingered so far.

"Can't you ask the school for assistance in this matter?"

"I already have, Minerva… but, as much as it pains me to admit, Hogwarts doesn't- ah, I think the muggle expression goes something along the lines of- 'work miracles'. Yes, I think that's appropriate, considering the circumstances."

"Albus," the woman fumed, "you ought to be serious about this! There are already children in Poppy's care- children! Before the feast started! That's unacceptable! If we don't find a solution to this- and we ought to find it soon- we might just have to hire a curse breaker to take care of the problem for us! I can't believe that we aren't any closer to finding the culprit of this… malicious prank!"

But Albus already had an idea of who had done it. Quirinus' behaviour had been more than a little erratic since his arrival from Albania. This 'malicious prank', as Minerva called it, only aggravated the suspicions the Headmaster had of his employee's character.

To what end, however? To intervene in young Harry's sorting? To hinder the staff's attentiveness and allow more subterfuge in the dark? To distract him? If his suspicions were correct that meant that either Lord Voldemort's abilities as a curse caster had gone rusty over the years or Quirinus wasn't responsible after all. There was no way Tom had settled for something as mild as this. Despite the complexity, this curse was innocuous and Tom wasn't one to opt for innocuous even in the best of his days.

"Ah, the magic words. Perhaps your lions are at fault here after all, Minerva," a sleazy voice drawled from the darkness. Severus Snape wore a sneer which took even the Headmaster aback. His dark glare could have pierced holes. "I hear that those Weasley twins still have a penchant for distasteful pranks. They must have decided the feast wasn't up to their… standards and decided to add a personal touch. The clues are all in front of us… it's simple, really."

Quirinus trailed behind the potion's master, looking all meek and mild. He wrung his wand with both trembling hands.

"The-they do p-play some na-nasty pra-pranks from ti-time to ti-time on un-unsuspecting pe-people," the Defense Professor said.

"How dare you accuse them of something like this?" Minerva snapped. "They had their pockets searched before they went to the feast! I saw to that myself! There's no way they could have done this!"

"See? You suspect them already..."

"Don't twist my words, Severus Snape!" she warned him, looking as though she wanted to scratch his eyes out. "They'd never scoop this low for any of their pranks! They may be mischievous, but they are pure of heart!"

"Oh, I see. Gryffindor honour. Of course, that solves everyth-" Severus drawled.

"Severus, Minerva," Albus smoothly interceded before they could break into a serious fight. "Arguing between us won't allow us to solve this mystery any sooner. I suggest we let our tempers cool before you do something you'd regret later."

His Deputy looked properly chastised, whilst Severus simply averted his eyes.

"We might have to buy more candles in order to replace the cursed ones. It's a pity, so many antiques to be defiled in this way, but until we have more leads on what's happened, I'm afraid that's the only solution open for us. I trust that the torches in the hallways are burning the same as always?"

"No change there, Headmaster."

"Then call back Filius and Aurora. It's been a trying day today and we must rest for tomorrow; it's, after all, the first day of classes and we all need to be at our finest capacity. I will remain here in case there's anything else I can do." Albus intended to put an end to the troubles tonight.

His Professors went willingly, having exhausted their brains thoroughly. Minerva was the last to remain until she too gave up and went for bed.

Alone at last, Albus stared contemplatively at the burning candles, but his mind was far away. He was, in fact, listening in on the first year's dormitories for any signs of anything amiss. It wouldn't do to have something happen to Harry this early into the year.

Cloth rustled.

"_Sleep next to me!"_

"_No."_

"_Come on! Don't be a prat and just say yes!"_

A loud smack.

"_Go away, Weasley,"_ Harry Potter snapped.

"_Bloody hell… Don't be a prat, Potter! Just because you are the bloody Boy Who Lived that doesn't mean you can treat us mortals like we're flobberworms!"_

"_Ron,"_ one of the other boys tried to placate young Ronald. He couldn't pick up the rest of what was being said.

Some more rustling.

"_Shut up!" _Ronald shouted.

"_Can I sleep next to you?"_ This new voice was barely heard amongst all the angry yelling. Ah, yes, now he remembered: Frank and Alice Longbottom's son, Neville. Why, he was so soft-spoken, nothing like Frank in his earlier years!

"_You don't snore, do you?"_ Harry asked.

"_Ehh, umm…"_ Neville stuttered.

Someone sighed. They sounded awfully resigned. _"Never mind, go on. Feel free to do as you wish."_

More rustling.

"_Who does he think he is?"_ Ronald Weasley whined to his friends.

But Harry didn't speak to anyone else. Presumably, he had already drawn his curtains around the four poster, if Ronald's booming voice was of any indication. Those had a heavy silencing spell on. Poor Ronald must want some kind of reaction from the Boy Who Lived if he was being this loud.

So very disappointing. A fruitful friendship between the son of a firmly Light family (and Order members to boot) and the one who was meant to be the saviour of their world, gone because of negative first impressions. Pity, as Albus had put a lot of stock in this potential relationship. Perhaps things would change? It was too early to determine anything. He'd let the chips fall where they may for now. It was too early to do anything about it.

Sighing, Dumbledore stopped eavesdropping. He stroked his beard thoughtfully, at first not noticing that strands white were coming off each time he patted it or that some of them disappeared immediately after.

The stone was in place and the wards protecting his friend's artefact, intact. He had located Voldemort's whereabouts successfully and lured him into the castle as well… So far, so good. It was the best he could hope fo-

Suddenly, the Great Hall lit itself all on its own, shining brightly to the point of blinding Albus. The flames reached an approximate height of two feet before shrinking just as suddenly to their normal sizes. They continued burning carelessly, as though nothing had happened.

Something was wrong, though. He could feel it.

"I know you are here," he announced gravely. He made a show of coiling his magic, because sometimes intimidation was key when dealing with dangerous individuals. "I'd suggest you show yourself."

They didn't.

The Headmaster took out his wand as a safety measure and walked around the tables in search for threats.

An eerie silence descended over the Great Hall.

Albus' skin prickled unpleasantly all over, breaking in goosebumps when he swore he felt the touch of a hand on top of his head.

Impossible. There was no one behind him…

Something fell from his head. It was hair.

The old wizard patted his head and was startled terribly when his fingers found nothing but smooth skin. His facial hair was similarly gone and so were his eyebrows.

Feeling sick all of the sudden, Albus grabbed his middle and heaved. Droplets of thick black goo splattered all over the floor and continued to drip from his mouth.

Filled with the same urge as before, Albus vomited again and again. He was too far gone in the sickness to notice that was losing teeth in the process as well. They appeared to be pearly white as they were expelled to the floor, but an instant after touching the cool stone they started rotting to the core.

Suddenly, the thick black goo was replaced by something more solid, something that Albus just knew was his intestines.

Albus heaved…

And shot up from his bed.

Fawkes cried in urgent tones from his perch, beads of tears streaming down his plumage and into his mouth when the Headmaster scurried nearer his familiar. As soon as the Phoenix tears touched his mouth, he started relaxing, muscles slackening from his pain-induced crouch.

Albus collapsed to the ground and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

It came out black.

He searched the floor and his bed. Some of his teeth lingered there, rotting before his eyes.

Walking unsteadily, he forced himself to stand in front of his mirror and turned just enough to confirm the rest of his suspicions.

On the back of his head, a bald patch peeked over what remained of his hair.

* * *

Sticking his tongue out, Salazar tasted the air of the corridor.

Several feet away, there was a faint scent of a feline. Faint as it was, however, it served him well as a warning.

The snake veered away, unwilling to be detected by a mere familiar or her Squib owner. The whole castle despised Filch and his Mrs. Norris, as they were charged with the dubious honour of catching anyone outside their dorms after curfew. It was just fortunate that his scales allowed him to manoeuvre silently around obstacles such as Mrs. Norris and Hogwarts' caretaker. His form, as much as it pained him to see it changed to this extreme, was perfect for sneaking around.

It would be different if it were daytime, however. Loathe the change as he did, truth was he was no longer green and his back contrasted sharply with his surroundings in spaces with proper light. Onyx black, with more than a hint of red highlighting his underbelly; he still couldn't figure out what had instigated this abrupt shift of hues. He resolved to blame it on the body. Yes, blame the Potter genes he now carried- that seemed a smart way to go. After all, he was related to Godric Sodding Gryffindor.

Salazar made his way into the girl's bathroom and- to his delight- the entire first floor was abandoned, making his trip much easier.

A slight shift in the air and a splash greeted him on the other side of the door when he managed to squish himself inside the girl's loo. Uncertain of what this could mean, shrewdly, he peered around with his small reptile eyes, immobile and alert.

Seconds passed. Nothing stood out.

Warily, he waited it out, tasting the air to be sure of his privacy.

Again, nothing.

After double checking for the fourth time, he gave up on finding out what happened and slithered to one of the bathroom's sinks. There was a small engraving on the side of one of the copper taps. His serpentine body wiggled in remembrance at the sight of the incision.

"Open up," he hissed sharply.

At once, the tap glowed with a brilliant white light and began to spin. Next second, the sink began to move; the sink, in fact, sank, right out of sight, leaving a large pipe exposed, a pipe wide enough for a man to slide into. (1)

"Nice," he said, now in his human form.

Salazar adjusted his glasses and tried to iron the wrinkles of his pyjamas before deeming it an impossible task.

With a calculating glint to his eye, he summoned the stairs, watching as the pipe writhed and spat out blocks of stone from its round surface.

Perfect.

His joy was forcibly shortened, however. Shockingly, a decisively feminine gasp resounded somewhere behind him. Immediately, the boy whirled around with his wand out already, spotting a blurry figure as it fled in a panic into one of the bathroom stalls.

"Close," he commanded to the sink.

Now growing more than mildly irritated with his rotten luck, Salazar advanced carefully around the large pools of water dampening the floor. His eyes were mere slits; green glowing dangerously.

As the entrance turned back to being an inconspicuous sink, he stormed up to the intruder's hiding spot and wrenched the door open with a loud slam. To spot-

No one… but how was this possible?

"Hello? Come out, miss. I promise I won't hurt you," he said, closing the door with deceptively care. Using his boyish charm, he continued using a phony pleading tone. "You startled me! I swear I didn't mean to scare you!"

The boy strained his hearing to pick up anything- breathing, heartbeat, anything- which would give away his intruder's location.

Nothing.

Another shift in the air and Salazar immediately took a shot at the fleeing floating figure rushing across the bathroom. His aim was true, striking them squarely on their backs, but not detaining or affecting them whatsoever. It would have if not for the simple fact that his attack _went through _their bodies and impacted something else entirely.

Surprised but not one to be deterred, Salazar continued casting. All too soon, however, whoever it was had gone through one of the bathroom's walls and they were gone from his firing range.

"Fucking perfect," Salazar cursed.

A ghost, a sodding ghost!

"Torpy," he called.

As always, his faithful house-elf appeared instantly with his head bowed.

"Master calls Torpy, Mast-!"

"Yes, yes!" he cut him off. He was in no mood for anything which would compromise his valuable time. "Torpy, go and search the castle for an active poltergeist. Female, around her teens and in uniform. Trap her if you must, but make sure she won't say anything about what she saw me do. Now go!"

Understanding the importance of his order, Torpy got to work, starting with a soft pop.

Salazar hissed in frustration and rubbed his forehead. His scar pulsed with his agitation, coaxing him to scrub angrily it as well.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he spat.

He reactivated the entrance to his chamber and walked briskly down the stairs after making sure to close up after him. He grew even more irritated when the torches he had installed didn't light up upon his passing.

_This better be worth it_, he thought.

Salazar pointedly ignored his pet's food remains and its shredded skin, wasting no time in opening the second door, which led to the main part of his chamber.

To his shock, he discovered it flooded.

Of his statue, only the head was above the murky water; the rest was hidden. If it weren't for the fact he had been the one to see this built, he would have sworn there was nothing below the neck.

A nasty odour stank the place, making his nostrils twitch with pure disgust. Salazar hadn't quite expected the air to smell of roses, but this had to be the worst scent he'd ever breathed in both of his lives. It was fairly reminiscent of flesh decay and human waste, along with puke and other unspeakable things.

"Shite," Salazar deadpanned, not pleased to hear his shoes squelched grossly each time he stepped. "I'm walking on shite. How cute. Fabulous."

He had half a mind to scream himself hoarse.

Standing in front of the Basilisk's cage, the reincarnation cleared his throat. His green eyes shone brightly behind his glasses.

"My pet," Salazar said in the Serpent Tongue, "you'd better be alive or I'll skin your corpse and feed it to the roosters."

The threat was done and if that didn't coax Medusa's cursed spawn out from his silence, nothing would.

He didn't have to wait long.

Beyond the wall, something big swayed its weight against the front of his statue. The impact of the Basilisk's movements made the whole thing shudder, but it wouldn't give in to the pressure, of that he was sure.

"…petty… _threatssss.._. not scared…" A rasping voice so low he had to strain to hear reverberated across the chamber. Salazar didn't blanch at the baleful tone. On the contrary, he found it annoying. "… only master calls upon this servant... child of man… me feed on your lifeless carcass... pest…"

"I'm your Lord, Basilisk," he said, fighting to stay calm over being addressed so irreverently. "Have centuries made you forget the one who created you?"

The Basilisk hissed angrily- no words, just a proclamation of aggression and intent, like a roar of a lion before charging- and the statue trembled once more. His charms held, despite the fact that the stone seemed to bulge. It was some time after when the huge snake ceased to try to break out.

"… claims to be _desssssserter…_? … _imposssssssible_… lies child of man…"

Salazar took its ire in stride. "My name is now quite different, Basilisk- but, yes. I was once known as Lord Slytherin."

"… have _gutssssss… _face me after _thisssss_ long…."

The boy cocked his head to the side. "You are mad at me."

"…true merciful master… allowed me to play with the ones outside the _pipessss_…"

"For what purpose?"

"_Kill… tear… let me rip…"_

"Who?"

"… insignificant… little girl… did not _tasssste_…"

"Clearly, you've crossed a line," Salazar said amusedly. "Do you swear me fealty, Basilisk?"

The Basilisk banged around its prison once more. Unforgiving rage seeped from the mouth of the statue, emitting _presence_ and preying instincts.

"… you… you… _desssssserter_… _mussssst_ not forgive…"

Distractedly, Salazar picked up a stone from the floor, one of his hands bringing out his wand.

"I'll kill you," he warned.

The Basilisk gave him a stuttering hiss, the snake equivalent of a mocking laugh.

"So," he said, tapping the filthy stone, "it seems that you've overstayed your welcome. A beast like you has no business in our world, less in Hogwarts. Indeed, someone has used you to kill and not on my order. That's unacceptable."

"… bloody _desssssserter_ _misssssses_ home…? _… friendlesssss_… betrayer…"

Salazar's face grew stony and with precise movements he transfigured the stone into a bird. Not just any bird- no, he was now grabbing a rooster by the neck even as the Basilisk basked in its ability to make him mad.

"… butcher red… you kill and rip and _ssssssssmash_… you broke your _promissssssses_… never protect… always _dessssssstroy_…!"

Salazar started seeing red.

He threw the now living animal a stinging hex at its rear and it crowed loudly.

The Basilisk shrieked and slammed the walls which contained him. Futilely, it tried to escape the sound.

Salazar knew that transfigured roosters weren't enough to kill a fully grown Basilisk. But multiple ones… well…

"Do you swear me fealty, Basilisk?" he repeated coolly. He constricted the throat of his rooster, not enough to choke, but enough to send it into a very vocal panic.

His nameless pet only shrieked in outrage. Salazar was sure that the beast was trying to kill him with his eyes, regardless of if there was a wall between them or not. Thank the Fates he'd had the brains to keep it contained while he did this.

"That's a no," he commented idly.

A pity, indeed- he had no use for a secret weapon when it was neither a secret nor loyal to him any longer. He gave it another chance, regardless.

"Join me," he coaxed the snake.

"… _die… die… child man…!" _it thundered.

As he was in the process of creating more of his makeshift roosters, Torpy chose that moment to make his reappearance, the ghost he was ordered to restrain coming into the chamber in tow. She looked utterly terrified as she looked around the chamber trying to locate what was making that noise. Shackles of some kind covered her wrists and prevented her escape. They appeared every bit as ethereal as she.

Another bird crowed and the Basilisk's cry threatened to bring down the chamber on them, making water and solid material both tremble timorously under their feet. His House-elf, thankfully, didn't bat an eyelash at the mayhem.

"Torpy," Salazar greeted, exceedingly jovial considering the circumstances. "Perfect, just in time! Put her somewhere where she won't disturb us, would you? And help me with this." He demonstrated exactly what he was referring to when he cast another replicating spell and another rooster came to life crowing furiously.

With Torpy's help, it only took them approximately two hundred twenty four transfigured roosters to put his creation down and by then, when he turned to look at the ghost, he was surprised to see that the ghostly shackles, which had been binding the girl, were lying uselessly on the ground. Worse still, his prisoner was nowhere in sight.

"How- did she escape?" he asked, partially stupefied. Until then, Torpy had never once failed him.

"No, no, Master!" Torpy grinned and rocked on his heels with both of his arms laced behind his back. "Ghostie Lassie has gone because she was scared."

"That… tells me absolutely nothing."

"She_ fushhhhed_! Gone as wind! Passed on, yes, yes, she did!"

"You're telling me she… passed on because she couldn't take the Basilisks screams?" Salazar asked incredulously.

"Yes, yes!" he exclaimed.

"Useful information," he muttered. A ghost… scared to death. Talk about irony…

"What Master does with Basilisk?" Torpy looked in askance at him.

Salazar blinked as he snapped out from his thoughts.

"Basilisks are invaluable ingredients for potion making… I wouldn't be opposed to reaping its hide and some of the venom in his fangs," Salazar mused out loud. "In fact, please conserve the entire body. I can later decide what I want to do with the rest. It wouldn't surprise me if I found some other uses for its flesh."

"As Master wishes."

With a snap of his fingers, Torpy opened up the entrance to the Basilisk's prison and allowed its now limp body to sink deeply into the water until there was nothing left inside. Salazar simply watched as the body of his late pet disappeared before his eyes, the elf's magic taking it somewhere else for storage.

Huffing, torn between disappointment and a pang of vicious glee for shutting up that bloody Basilisk, Salazar wiped the grime in his hands with his pyjamas. The roosters, which were still running amok, disappeared with a simple wave of his hand.

"We are done here," Salazar announced. Expectantly, Salazar looked down at his elf and asked, "Are you able to take me directly to my four poster in Gryffindor Tower?"

Torpy jumped up and down, nodding his head frantically.

"Do so," Salazar said.

Not a moment after, he was back on his bed. And he, feeling predictably exhausted after the whole ordeal, fell asleep immediately as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He didn't even bother to check on the charred remains of one of his straw dolls.

* * *

Dumbledore did not go down to join them that morning.

The day after his little adventure had Salazar blinking groggily at the piles of food lounging in front of him. For some unexplainable reason, Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom were sitting on both sides next to him, not talking but immersed in their own worlds as well. Perhaps they felt entitled to a semblance of companionship with him after what happened in the train.

He wasn't about to chase them away.

He left them to it, cursing the prefect who had woken him up under his breath as he reached for his breakfast. Hopefully, some toast and bacon would reenergize him.

Hermione Granger had struck him as a know-it-all ever since she had first opened her mouth. His first impression of her seemed to be spot on as she had yet to look up from the book she had all but dragged into the Great Hall. From time to time, you could hear her muttering sentences and terms which were exceedingly complex for the hour.

Neville was another case entirely. He was jumpy, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else but there when McGonagall swept in and handed over their schedules. Gripping his sheet tightly after a careful examination, Neville's shoulders slumped in relief and he allowed himself to breath.

"Thank Merlin we don't have Potions yet," he groaned gratefully.

"Whatever you mean?" asked Salazar, curious. The usage of that name- Merlin- still struck him as strange.

"Nothing, but… Snape's rumoured to be a little vicious to Gryffindors, that's all. My Gran has tried to sack him for years- she's on the Board of Governors, y'know- but Dumbledore isn't hearing any of it. It's just- It sucks that we're gonna be in his class. Gran says I'm not any good at potions and I agree, so it's going to be hell to have him as a Professor," Neville said, voice trailing off weakly.

"Oh, nonsense!" Hermione cut in. She slammed her book down. "Everyone of the school staff knows they have to be fair to their students! They cannot favour anyone over anyone else!"

"Who says?"

"The rules! It's written there! And even if it wasn't, professors shouldn't blatantly dismiss students when they listen to others! That's just morally wrong!" she exclaimed.

"That doesn't mean it's implemented like that," Salazar explained as calmly as possible. He himself was an exception to that stupid rule of Rowena's. Unlike her, Helga and he had treasured their students. In his case, because of their promising futures and their ambition, which was always good to have. "It's in our nature to feel more at ease with people with similar personalities and tempers. That doesn't go away when you're teaching someone, although you could try to be more... neutral, if you will."

Hermione still didn't look convinced, however.

"Uh, Hermione, Harry's right. Not everyone is perfect," Neville said. He looked distinctively uncomfortable going against a strong personality like hers. "There are times when someone doesn't follow the rules..."

"Because they are troublemakers!"

"Because that's how they are," Salazar said.

"I can't believe you're condonin-"

Salazar straightened in his seat, feeling the pressure of someone's gaze. It didn't take much to guess correctly who was responsible for his discomfort.

A man dressed in all black robes was sitting with the staff and glaring in their direction. In fact, it would safe that the focus of his annoyance was him, judging for the sharp prod he felt on his brain.

"Harry, what is it?"

"Is Snape the one with the long nose and the black cloak? Is he?" Salazar asked. The man looked familiar. His mother had told him about him and their history together- James and Snape's cruel rivalry included- but he had to make sure.

"Yeah, that's him," Neville said, averting his eyes. He now looked a bit put out by his food, not eating any of what he had on his plate.

"I guess you're right, Neville. He doesn't look very fair to me," Salazar said.

"Why I've never- Harry, you don't judge people based on appearances! You don't know if he's really like. Maybe the rumours are wrong, didn't you think of that?" Hermione's eyes turned to slits. "Maybe he's just having a bad morning."

Salazar wasn't so sure. He exchanged a glance with Neville. Just when he was about to retort, something stopped him.

In retrospective, no one saw them coming. They seemed to literally appear out of thin air, even. Point is, they were suddenly invaded by two mischievous pranksters. Their diabolical grins matched their equally identical appearances.

"As if-"

"-my poor deluded girl-" A pair of lanky redheads snaked their arms around Hermione's shoulders.

"-you see, our Professor Snape is one of a kind-" Continued one.

"-with his greasy hair and a temper to clash-" And finished the other.

"-Slytherus Snape will plot your demise-"

"-with pretty bottles and real bogus smile!"

On the far end of the Great Hall, there was an explosion, which pounded on the eardrums of everyone in attendance. Immediately after, a thick smoke polluted the air, denser where Snape was last seen.

"WEASLEY!"

"Oh, oh-"

"Time to run, my not so handsome brother!"

"Anything to leave your ugly mug behind, brother dearest!"

Snape surged from the smoke with a dark red Glasgow grin drawn on his scowling face and they ran off.

Giddily, they laughed their heads off as they parted the Great Hall with great flourish, bowing and winking to anyone looking. Their laughter carried to where Salazar sat as they ran away from the rampaging man.

"Those idiots… what are they playing at?" someone asked stupidly, coughing and waving away the greyness around her.

"That's the Weasley twins for you," one Gryffindor sounded resigned. "Not even started the year and we'll have who-knows-how-many minus zero house points before class starts thanks to those gits."

Hermione was swaying dangerously on her seat. Her hair was frizzing more and more by the moment, an expression of unadulterated shock on her face.

"Hermione?" Neville asked uncertainly.

"What just happened?" she asked. Her voice wavered and she shook her head, blinking as if to clear her sight.

"Chaos," Salazar deadpanned.

Amusingly enough, he could hear Snape's dressing down of the twins from where they were, assigning them detention each time they came up with sarcastic quips. The man could shout.

The few teachers sitting in the staff table started clearing the remnants of the explosion with their wands.

"Let's- let's just go to class," Hermione said, their argument long forgotten.

Fortunately, she regained her balance sometime before reaching Flitwick's class.

* * *

(1) Taken from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, property of J.K. Rowling.


	4. Interlude

_-Interlude-_

_These Were Dark Times_

* * *

**A/N:** Words from a dead woman.

An update. Yeah.

* * *

_To Harry,_

_Sweetie._

_As much as it pains me to write this, it's high time I face the facts. Lord Voldemort is out there, growing stronger and stronger by the minute, and his taboo strikes fear in everyone's hearts. The threat of being attacked is like a dark miasma pouring over our heads. It brings us down every time we manage to push forward. His minions - those honest to Merlin awful Death Eaters - do_ his_ dirty work. They are what we have to watch out for, Harry, because right now we don't know who to trust._

_We are in the middle of a war. __And there's nothing more atrocious than to suspect those who you love, sweetheart. I hope you don't get to experience_ it — never._ I want you to have loads and loads of friends, you hear me? That's your mother speaking and you'd better remember it! Loads of friends!_

_I'm sorry, Remus. I'm so sorry. I have to confess, James and Sirius made a very valid argument against you and you've been acting kind of queer lately. To my greatest shame, I can't bring myself to see you how you were when we were at Hogwarts - as one of my closest friends. Trust withers very easily these days, sadly, and I want to remember what you were like when you were smiling and messing around in the library — but my imagination gets to me where our paranoia feeds the blazing pyre._

_If this is prejudice, then I forgive me. I've failed you terribly as your friend._

_In the event that we're wrong and you're innocent — I'm sorry. We'll trust Sirius and Peter with our safety. The Headmaster was very adamant in his council and Sirius wants Peter to be our backup with the Fidelius. He's convinced that he has people following him around and won't risk our safety with such an obvious manoeuvre. _

_That dog — what would we do without him?_

_But even so, someone like Sirius can fail and be captured. These are the facts: Potter Manor has been compromised. Just last week we've seen someone shrouded in a dark cowl scouting the perimeters. They are closing in on us. We have to leave. Our home isn't safe anymore. I can't lose Harry. James — I just can't._

_Remus. I hope you can bring yourself to forgive me. There's no sign of anybody stopping this reign of terror and we are desperate. I hope you understand. I'm so scared. I smile whenever I see you, Harry. But when you're gone and I read the paper, everything comes rushing back. James makes things easier, yes — but for how long? The stress is getting to him too. I can see it. Like a nightmare, it never ends. We are in hiding, but our friends are not. _

_Mary did not make it._

_About that, word's got out that Severus did it. I don't know what to think about that. What's wrong with that man?! And to think, I was his friend! His friend, Remus! I knew him from before I went to Hogwarts! And he killed her! They raped her and reanimated her body to be their plaything! THAT DISGUSTING SON OF A—_

_I'm crying — so much. Ugh._

_I was never hearty optimist. You know that. James tries - Merlin knows he does - but not even he can maintain his usual playfulness when we're fighting a war._

_There are so many deaths. You can't begin to imagine, Harry. I sure hope you never know and that this letter never gets the chance of being read by anyone. Circe knows I'm a mess while I'm writing this. Geez, I have to pull myself together. The parchment's getting wet._

_"Why is propaganda so much more successful when it stirs up hatred than when it tries to stir up friendly feeling?" I remember that quote. Bertrand Russell's, I think. Voldemort's mastered it: the propaganda of fear and not without his accessories. I'm a very down-to-earth person, Harry, you see, and I'm beginning to doubt our chances of survival._

_Dumbledore can preach as he likes about prophecies and people's destinies, but I can't see anything coming from such a woolly thing like Divination. Hope is good - don't misunderstand me, Harry. Hope is great in small quantities. But that man — he will do everything to see Voldemort finished, or in his words: "redeemed"._

_If I die, Harry, I want you to memorize this list:_

_1\. Sirius Black is your godfather. Alice Longbottom, your godmother, but he's the one who'll take you if we're gone; he's promised us he will. Please get along. He can be an insufferable prat most of the time, I know. But! Patience is a virtue. And you're your father's son, so I'm wholly certain that things will be just fine between the two of you. Just don't get into too much trouble. That's all I ask, sweetie._

_2\. Take everything the Headmaster says with a grain of salt, for he is a very mysterious individual. He's a good leader and an idealistic person, but still. He keeps a lot of secrets from us. There's no harm in keeping some distance between the two of you, if it means keeping you safe._

_3\. Another thing. Harry, I'm a Muggleborn witch. You have family outside the Wizarding World. They are the Dursleys and while I don't care much for my sister's husband, Tuney is someone you'll have to see sooner or later. She and I are at odds with each other at the moment, but she still reserves the right to know what happened to me. If no one has told her about me already, then please tell her so she can mourn my death properly. I know that deep down she cares for her little sister, even if she doesn't for my kind. Just a little warning: she will probably try to antagonise you. Do your best not to rise to the bait — Petunia can be downright nasty when she wants to._

_4\. There's a prophesy about you, sweetie. Dumbledore dropped the proverbial bomb on us with this one. Just in case… I'll write it down for you. It goes like this:_ "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."

_5\. Harry. Don't take that prophesy nonsense into heart. I'm a firm believer that destinies are never written on stone — and I shy away from a possible future with you battling with Voldemort. Get ready for the worst, nevertheless, AND TRAIN!_

_6\. Survive, Harry. I'll do everything in my power to allow you to do so._

_Survive._

_Please, Harry. For us. Live a happy life._

_7\. Know that we love you. So very much, sweetheart._

_Your mother loves you. Your father loves you._

_We'll watch over you._

_Always,_

_Lily._


	5. Need A Cool Head?

**A/N: **Had lots of problems with this chapter. Glad to have it off my back *wipes sweat from brow* Pheeww! Snape's a bastard even when I have to write him! Someone give me a hug, that man is the stuff from nightmares!

I wanna cry.

(Not really.)

(Or maybe a little bit. From happiness.)

(I swear.)

Who cut the onions, goddamnit?

I've discovered I do better with shorter chapters. So, yeah. Here's a shortie. I hope that people are still interested in this story. Thank you all for reading this far! :)

* * *

**Disclaimer: **You're mine, Harry! No one else's! Muahahahaha!

Yeah.

Totally.

(God damn it. I wanted to be rich!)

* * *

-Chapter Four-

Need A Cool Head?

* * *

Friday morning hit them with plain grey skies and the usual breakfast served on each respective table. They had Double Potions with Snape that day and Salazar knew it would be no idle affair at all; there were promises in the potion master's eyes and they weren't kind to anyone carrying his surname. It was at times like these that Salazar really despised James Potter's unnecessary bullying urges. They had done his son no favours so far.

Salazar helped himself with a hearty breakfast as Hermione reread McGonagall's book, which she had assigned to everyone in their year. She was reviewing the match-needle metamorphosis section and looking quite puzzled over it.

"I don't get it," said Hermione with great displeasure. "How does it come to you so easily?" She was of course talking to Salazar, who couldn't be bothered to downplay his abilities in every class he attended.

"The subject is all about intent," he said calmly. He took a sip of his dark coffee—he would thank Torpy for it later. "You are incantation-focused only, which is why you are failing to produce significant changes. You can't order the thing to change on its own, it has no will to speak of— it is you who want it to change. If there's no backing behind the spell, it falls flat and produces only the barest of reactions. The same goes for charms—you have to mean it."

Salazar would never claim to be an expert in Transfiguration, but the basics were crystal clear to a wizard like him. Somewhat astonishingly, McGonagall had overlooked to teach her students the fundamental rule behind every speck of magic. Was it any wonder that only a handful of students achieved anything in Transfiguration?

He took out his wand and a match from his pocket; luckily, their professor had lent them some so they had something to practice the spell on.

"Compositus Verto," he whispered and the matchstick shrivelled into its metallic counterpart, pointy end, loop and all.

"Oh," Hermione exclaimed, eyes sparking into life. She picked it up and turned around her thumb. "It's a perfect transformation!"

Neville squinted at it. "It's a normal needle," he determined.

Salazar nodded and beckoned him over with his finger. "It's not that big of a deal. Now I want you to try it, Neville. Remember," he said, holding his wand firmly in his hand, "the counterspell is Finite. We don't want it to stay like this, don't we?" The needle changed back to its original state.

Neville chuckled nervously. "I'm hardly any good at it, Harry. Why don't you ask Hermione instead?"

"Indulge me," Salazar smiled pleasantly. "Please, Neville?"

Gulping, the boy nodded. He fumbled to grab his wand in his pocket.

"First, I want you to say it clearly, Neville— Compositus Verto. Repeat after me."

"Compositus Verto," said Neville weakly.

"Good," Salazar nodded and walked around him to support his shaking hand with his strong grip. "Now concentrate. Louder and firmer this time."

But it was no good. Neville's match stayed stubbornly the same.

Salazar's eyes narrowed in vexation.

"Sorry," Neville apologized, red-faced.

Salazar dispelled the lingering tension right away. "No worries," he said, "I just don't understand why you can't do it. Hermione?"

She did it on her first try. Her beaming smile revealed the slight overbite of her teeth. It was almost endearing how much joy small accomplishes brought her.

"But why can't Neville do it?" Hermione wondered. "You might be wrong, you know. Your technique may not work with everybody, Harry."

"No, no. The technique's fine, Hermione. It's me who's having trouble with it," Neville confessed quietly. "In all my childhood, I've almost never had an episode of accidental magic— 'cept when my Great Uncle Algie came over, of course. He kept trying to catch me off my guard and force some magic out of me. He pushed me off the end of Blackpool pier once, and I nearly drowned— but nothing happened until I was eight. I remember that day clearly; Great Uncle Algie came round for dinner, and he was hanging me out of an upstairs window by the ankles when my Great Auntie Enid offered him a meringue and he accidentally let go. I thought I was finished, but I bounced — all the way down the garden and into the road. They were all really pleased, Gran was crying, she was so happy… I really consider myself lucky not to be a squib. Or I wouldn't be here."

Hermione gaped. "But that's child endangerment! They—They can't do that—can they? Please tell me that's not legal!"

Neville looked like he didn't know what to say to that. He shrugged.

Salazar cleared his throat. Something didn't add up in Neville's version of the story. His core was burbling just under his skin—the opposite of this could be found in Mrs. Figg's magic, which was only a dot of insignificant power next to the oppressed raging flame that resided in the boy before him.

"Let's try something from Charms," he suggested.

But the results were pathetic all the same.

"This isn't working," Hermione stated flatly.

That was an understatement.

"Sorry, guys." Neville ducked his head down.

"Oh, none of that, Neville. We'll just have to ask a Professor for help," Hermione said.

Salazar nodded sagely. He wouldn't step in unless the situation seemed unsalvageable and Neville had done well thus far despite his apparent incompetency with spells.

"Not Snape," Neville said immediately.

"Not Snape," Salazar readily agreed, "but Professor McGonagall might know what to do."

He hadn't forgotten that Legilimency attack—the git. And Snape hadn't exactly endeared himself to him, even if they hadn't exactly talked much during the week. To his supreme displeasure, the potions master had proved himself to be an inadequate Head of House. The man clearly didn't know what he was doing; the way the snakes' reputation had declined over the recent years was purely heart-breaking—and it was very stupid of Severus Snape to even allow such a fate to befall to those of cunning and ambition.

In fact, at this point in time, Salazar had half a mind to wring Snape's neck—or just toss him from the tallest tower and be done with it. Without a wand, the git wouldn't survive it.

Instead of encouraging friendly socialization with the other Houses, the potions master had openly segregated them from the rest of Hogwarts, turning the into some rare sort of twisted elite. A fool's move— as the Slytherins' extreme stance in blood purity was, by default, widely known amongst their magical peers, making possible allies shy away from them to escape the dark reputation Slytherin embodied now. Salazar's only consolation was that Hogwarts shared his poor opinion on the matter and was more than eager to make amends to him for letting the situation get to this point.

"What's up with you two and Professor Snape? We've never spoken to him or been to his class, and yet you're always dissing him at every turn," Hermione glared.

The boys shrugged. They hadn't been able to bring her round yet, her faith in figures of authority as unshakable as ever, but they would be at Snape's mercies soon—that is to say, none at all, if the rumours were to be believed— and if that didn't change her mind, then nothing would.

They were about to leave the Great Hall at a comfortable pace, when Justin Finch-Fletchley came running to them from the Hufflepuff table.

"Potter, Granger, Longbottom! Long time no see, good ol' chaps!" he greeted cheerfully.

"Justin!" Hermione beamed widely at the sight of him. "How are you? How's Hufflepuff treating you so far?"

"It's brilliant in there," Justin asserted happily. "We are a close bunch, us Hufflepuffs. So far everything's been really great— they've been very hospitable and agreeable with everyone, especially Diggory. He's a real champ— kind of like a big family, really. And I promise I'll invite you over some day if I get permission from Professor Sprout. The common room's a real beauty—tis' a shame you're missing out on it just for being in another House. How's the Lions, by the way? Do you lot really host parties every night as they say?"

After reassuring him that, no, they did not in fact throw parties or smuggle firewhiskey into the dormitories every night— to their knowledge, at least—, Justin's face turned a bit more serious.

"I'm not just here for the idle talk," said Justin, "although we really should get together more often for sure. You see, Professor Sprout is having us look for one of your housemates—it was someone with the name of Perkins, I think?"

"You don't mean Perks? Did anything happen to Sally-Anne?" Hermione asked worriedly.

"I don't know. Our Head found her in the bathroom crying after she skived off Herbology yesterday and she ran off before she could comfort her, so she's asking around to see if she's all right," Justin explained.

Hermione frowned. "No… I don't remember—I don't think I saw her in our dormitory, though. She wasn't there today when I woke up."

Justin grimaced.

"We'll keep an eye out," Salazar compromised. Neville only nodded mutely.

"Thanks, mate. Much appreciated." Justin patted him on the shoulder and walked off to talk to other people.

* * *

"It's strange," Neville commented on their way to Double Potions.

"What is it?"

Neville reddened slightly; apparently, he hadn't meant to be heard. "There've been a lot of things that I don't understand lately," he mumbled sheepishly, "like the lack of ghosts roaming the corridors— Professor Binns is not going to class either, but he's never done anything like this before— and then someone said they saw a unicorn running out of the woods last night— Gran never told me anything like it. It's most strange."

Salazar hummed thoughtfully, neither in agreement or denial.

But Hermione, on the other hand, started gritting her teeth. Neville's offhanded reference to Professor Binns had touched a raw nerve in the girl. "The nerve of that professor! If he's not going to show up, then he ought to let someone else take the position! Honestly. Some people are the same! I would have thought that a ghost would know better!"

Her outrage was justified. Surprisingly, Professor Binns was not the most boring teacher they'd had to this day as they'd been led to believe, but that was only because the ghost hadn't bothered to teach them anything. In fact, Binns hadn't been sighted anywhere in the caster as of late, forcing every student in attendance to ditch the History of Magic classroom in order to go to the library for 'some quality reading time', as the teachers had called it.

"If he isn't found soon, Dumbledore will have no choice but to hire someone else— that or he'll have to live up to another of his titles again. It's been a while since he's taught anything," said Salazar.

Hermione looked torn, as if she couldn't decide if she wanted to be taught by the headmaster of the school and one of the most revered wizards of all time or just flat-out wanted to wait if there was any more news in the Binns front.

"Can you imagine," Neville whispered excitedly, "Albus Dumbledore teaching us history! He might even tell us how he defeated Grindelwald!"

Ah, yes. The myth of Albus Dumbledore began with the downfall of his closest friends—fancy detail, that.

Hermione was positively glowing at the prospect. "He would— I think— if we asked nicely... Oh, that would be so exciting, wouldn't it?"

"What do you think, Harry?" Neville's question was rewarded by a quirk of his lips.

"I agree," he said. "I really want to speak to that man." Just not for the reasons they thought.

"Well," someone jeered derisively. When they looked at the source of that voice, there was no mistaking the red hair or the gangly figure. "Someone as important as Albus Dumbledore wouldn't talk to someone like you, Potter."

Ronald Weasley was always an unwelcomed sight. Lady Magic knew they'd never wanted him around, but the little bugger always seemed to manage to pop up at the most inconvenient times. He wasn't very popular with the Gryffindor House either— his own friends were occasionally bothered with his brash behaviour and, as he had made it a hobby to confront Salazar at least twice a day, many had taken personal affront at his unrelenting harassment of the Boy Who Lived. But the boy never seemed to learn; it would take a really big shock to his system to make him cease the way he was acting.

Salazar would occasionally ponder about this new penchant of his for gaining enemies lately. No matter what he did, someone would try to put him down or try to hog all of his attention.

Ronald Weasley was a simple-minded individual and he belonged exclusively in these two categories. When the latter failed, he resorted to the other in order to feel himself important. Salazar knew his type—Ronald Weasley was self-centred bully and he'd sooner destroy his own reputation than confront his actual social standing. He was a deluded little boy and Salazar was all for watching the fool pave his way down to his own doom.

"Someone like me?" Salazar did his best to appear incredulous. "I wasn't aware you spoke for the Headmaster, Weasley."

"Piss off, Potter," Ronald snarled. "You're just like those snakes. Just you wait—I'm going to make everyone realize how dark you really are."

"Harry isn't dark, you prat," Neville muttered. "You're just annoyed he didn't want to make friends with you."

"Like you're anything special, Longbottom. What are you even doing, hanging around him?" Ronald sneered. "Can't cast spells so you go for the next best thing, that it?"

Neville flinched. Hermione hugged her books closer to her chest. "Do leave us alone already! You've never had anything nice to say to us!"

The redhead scowled at her. "No one's asking you, Granger!"

He tried to bump into her shoulder, but Salazar grabbed her just as he flounced by. The lack of impact made him stumble and Ronald had one more glare to throw in the Boy Who Lived's direction. Salazar's other roommates, Seamus and Dean, made a point of not looking at any of them as they followed after him, but the founder had a pretty strong suspicion they would regret not speaking out later.

Salazar took pity on the two children who didn't know any better and pulled them along. They had a Potions classroom to go to and couldn't afford to waste more time.

"Don't take his words seriously," he advised quietly. "He speaks filth and the things that come out of filth are not worth your pain."

Out of the two of them, his female friend seemed the most affected. "But he's—he's—!" Hermione struggled to find the words.

"A prat," Neville finished for her. For a normally soft-spoken boy like him, such an insult spoke volumes of his disdain for the redhead. "Ronald Weasley is a prat, Hermione. Harry's right—we really don't want to listen to his diatribe."

And Hermione, who was the type to shy away from any type of cussing, didn't argue with him.

Salazar smiled.

* * *

Sev, more commonly known to everyone as Severus Snape— and Snivellius to James and his gang—, was a downright prat. He made this fact known to every breathing creature in the classroom the moment he walked in.

Potions lessons took place down in one of the dungeons. It was colder over there than up in the main castle, and would have been quite creepy enough without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls. Salazar drew a line at the decapitated heads and chopped fingertips, however. That was just not good ethics at work. It did increase the intimidation factor by spades, though— which was probably the point in all the sadism now that he thought about it. Neville Longbottom, as a matter of fact, looked ready to shite his pants, and he was the norm and not the exception.

Still, Snape's tastes in décor left much to be desired.

Their new Professor started class by taking the roll call. Immediately, Snape's less than charitable eyes seemed to zero in on Salazar the moment he mentioned his name. His lips seemed to curl downwards in revulsion.

The former founder straightened in his seat.

"Ah, yes," Snape said softly, "Harry _Potter._ Our new — celebrity."

Salazar felt Neville gulp and grip his hand tightly within his chubby one. As if on cue, Draco Malfoy and merry band of sycophants sniggered behind their hands. The whole Slytherin congregation was no better than automatons, heeding cues only their social hierarchy determined.

Snape ploughed on, sneer in place, and not ceasing with the distasteful attitude. In his dreadful tones, he finished calling the names and looked up at the class.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking," he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses. . . . I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death— if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Ah.

A flair for dramatics. Everyone looked significantly cowed. Only Salazar's muggleborn companion, Hermione Granger, was on the edge of her seat and looked desperate to prove that she wasn't a dunderhead. Her hand rose up in the air, waving and trembling with effort, but Snape seemed determined to ignore her overzealousness.

His dark eyes wanted to prey on someone else entirely.

This was a bad day to be Harry Potter, Salazar reflected grimly.

"Potter!" said Snape suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Salazar felt the passive Legilimency probe and rebuffed it easily. It seemed to enrage the potions master further, rather than cow, as he'd hoped, however. The consequent headache he was getting from this battle of wills was not one anyone would scoff at.

"Draught of Living Death, sir," Salazar answered calmly.

Snape sneered. "Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

"A bezoar has to be taken from the stomach of a goat, sir."

"And what uses does it have?" Snape snapped.

Salazar smiled toothily. "A bezoar_, sir, _which has to be taken from the stomach of a goat, is a stonelike mass that acts as an antidote which will most likely save you from most poisons; a notable exception to this rule is a Basilisk's venom, which is fast acting and will most likely kill you on the spot."

"Ten points from Gryffindor!" Snape shouted. He ignored the cries of outrage coming from the rest of his Gryffindor housemates, looking on the verge of blooming his top with Salazar's unflappable demeanour.

"For what?" he asked levelly.

"For cheating! You obviously read the text from your book and used it to seem intelligent in front of your peers!"

Salazar raised an eyebrow, the perfect epithet of polite interest, but said nothing. Not even to defend himself. The man was ridiculously easy to rile up. He had yet to provoke him and he was already raising his voice.

Honestly.

On his side, Neville whimpered. Similarly affected, just in another way, Hermione's hair rose in open challenge, incensed for his sake, but the girl hesitated before opening her mouth to defend him. Salazar thought that was for the best. The points system had not been implemented in his time and he gave a rat's arse about what happened to it, but, knowing how she was, she would be terribly affected if it went down further because of her well-meant intervention.

Hermione backed down and pursed her lips. Wisely, she didn't raise her hand anymore— but more importantly, she also didn't rise to the bait and kept silent.

Smart girl.

Seeing no response from the son of his most hated rival in the immediate future, Snape gritted his teeth and began scribbling directions on the board. The grating sounds coming from his temper tantrum were very unpleasant and made the whole class cringe away from him.

"Begin!" Snape sneered.

Things didn't improve for the Gryffindors as the Potions lesson continued. Snape put them all into pairs and set them to mixing up a simple potion to cure boils. He swept around in his long black cloak, watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs, but making no movements to try to help them. Snape kept criticizing almost everyone except Malfoy, who he seemed to favour over everyone else.

The strict bias was not unexpected. Salazar speculated there was something going on behind the scenes here—perhaps Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape knew each other and Lucius had called in a favour. Snape, however, did watch him like a hawk throughout the class—but aside from him and Malfoy, there was nothing he would look at for less than a split of second except to demean the Gryffindors' desperate efforts further.

It was this severe neglecting behaviour which instigated mistakes. In the case of potions, often fatal ones. Between Snape terrorizing the children and the lack of an introductory course before a practical, it came as no surprise to him that Neville couldn't take the pressure for much longer.

The traumatized boy was already reaching for the porcupine quills when Salazar's hand seized his in a firm grip. Salazar was paired with him—logically, he'd rather not risk an explosion with him within the immediate radius.

"First you have to take out your cauldron out of the fire," Salazar instructed him quietly. He coaxed Neville to put down the quills as an effort to prevent an accident. "Then you add the porcupine quills. Like that. See?" Their potion was changing colour accordingly.

Neville's breathing shuddered. "Thanks," he said.

And the moment of peace shattered into pieces.

"POTTER! Breaking the rules already, I see! Thirty points from you!" Snape snapped from a distance. If anyone had been looking, they would have seen the dark look crossing Salazar's face for a split of second. As it was, they were all very busy shaking in their boots as they watched Snape come over to his table.

Salazar raised his head and looked at the rampaging man.

The insect of a man, who was getting more and more bothersome by each passing minute.

Salazar was rapidly getting tired of these simpletons.

"Sir?" he asked in apparent childish confusion.

Snape jeered, "Thought yourself to be so smart? Detention for sabotaging your peer's work, Potter! Making yourself look better is no excuse for your actions!" Snape banished both his and Neville's cauldron with his wand. Feeling smug, the Slytherins in the room snickered at the apparent disgrace he'd committed.

The person responsible for putting that crest in those uniforms disapproved greatly.

Salazar blinked. "You made him my partner," he said flatly.

"If you are going to lie, Potter, at least have the decency to do it well. I don't remember setting you up with Longbottom for this task," Snape drawled. "You've clearly disobeyed my directions."

Something in him broke. The last vestiges of his self-restrain, maybe?

He stood up.

"You can't assign me detention," Salazar replied quietly.

Snape was positively gleeful by his rebuttal. "I can and I will! I expect you to come to my classroom after class and clean the messes your inept dunderhead friends have left behind today! Longbottom will be sharing your punishment as well for his own incompetence."

"I won't go."

Neville elbowed him.

Salazar ignored him. "You're being unreasonable, Professor."

"I don't care for your opinion, Potter," Snape sneered.

Salazar smiled boyishly. "Then I find it degrading that you're allowed to teach at all, Professor. And that I have to refer to you as such—I really don't want to think of you as anything other than the greasy old git my father knew in school. Apparently, you're also someone who can't seem to let bygones be bygones."

Snape was practically foaming at the mouth in rage. "You brat! Fifty points from Gryffindor for your cheek! I'll see you expelled at the end of this week!"

"On whose authority?"

"ON MY OWN!" Snape exploded.

"I'm afraid you can't expel me, Snivellius," Salazar said. He bared his teeth to Snape, challenging him and encouraging him to step out of the line one last time. "As a matter of fact, only the Headmaster can. And I believe I can talk my way out of expulsion rather easily— that is, considering how bad it would look to the general public that everyone's favourite idol had his wand snapped not even a week into his first year. And all because of the protests of a reformed Death Eater who hated my father's guts... Excuse my arrogance, sir, but I think I have this one in the bag."

Dead silence. Harry Potter had blackmailed Snape in front of everyone— Harry Potter had defied a Professor's authority, stated that the man was a former follower of You Know Who and that he bore a grudge against the late James Potter, father of the Boy Who Lived and a hero in the eyes of many.

Salazar couldn't have done it any better if he'd tried any harder. Snape was an utter arse. He'd made this too easy for him.

Snape's complexion was rapidly reddening, in a pale imitation of Ronald Weasley.

"Get. Out," he said under his breath. The potions master's face was twitching uncontrollably.

No one moved.

"OUT, ALL OF YOU!" Snape bellowed.

Packing their things rapidly, everyone ran for the door, pointedly ignoring how Salazar hadn't moved as they fled the scene in fright. Salazar was pleased to note that Hermione and Neville were part of the handful that hovered in the doorway before disappearing moments later.

Dear Magic. He was getting attached to those two.

"You'll rue the day you made a public enemy out of me, Potter," Snape gritted out.

"What do you mean, Snivellius?" Salazar asked. "You started this first— I'm just finishing it. Had you had the presence of mind to restrain yourself, I wouldn't have said anything."

"You don't know what you've done."

"Oh, I know plenty— starting with your lovely tattoo." Salazar's eyes flickered to the concealed mark.

Snape narrowed his eyes. The Legilimency probe hardened. "Whatever nonsense you think you know, Potter, you've burned down the one bridge you won't ever have the chance to rebuild in your pathetic life. You won't recover from this. Of that, I'll make sure."

Salazar cocked his head to a side. "My mother must have not meant much to you then if you are withdrawing your support so soon."

Snape made a nasty face, lips pulled back and eyebrows furrowed until they were almost one crooked line. His sallow skin and hooked nose highlighted his uneven teeth.

He would push a bit; see if he could squeeze something out of this. "She wrote to me, you see. In case she died, my mother left me several letters in which she seemed convinced you had turned completely dark."

Growling, Snape drew his wand and started stalking over to him. "You're every bit as arrogant as your father! Potter, I'll-"

"You'll let me leave this place very well alone, Severus Snape. Or have you fallen so much as to not recognize the severity of your position?" Salazar said.

The overgrown bat looked like he was very tempted to curse him anyway, even knowing that the deed would be traced back to him. Even the simplest of minds would connect the dots after all that was said and done that day. And Salazar was not afraid of him, not because he was feeling particularly daring that day, but because he could feel the whole castle's attention focused on their confrontation.

Fates bless him. Hogwarts had erected a ward between them for his protection. Her strongest one yet.

In that moment, there was nothing Salazar loved more than his creation.

"The ice you walk on thins quickly, Professor— once it breaks, you'll find the fall to be very gruelling," Salazar warned him seriously. "I've been informed about your relationship with my parents and your somewhat complex past. My mother's certainly written me more than enough letters to know exactly what's going on in that mind of yours right now, Severus Snape." The potions master's expression soured further. "Whether or not you've repented about your actions, I don't care, but you can't continue to exhibit this kind of behaviour if you ever hope to remain a part of this school."

With a wave of his wand, all of his belongings went into his bag neatly. Head raised high, Salazar strapped his backpack on his back and began walking away from the still fuming professor.

He didn't even reach the door before Snape was back at it.

"I'll see that you pay for this, Potter!" he shouted after him.

Feeling himself disappointed, Salazar Slytherin glanced back at his successor and found him sorely lacking. The House of the lions was better suited for him. Coming from someone who despised the hypocrisy of Godric Gryffindor in claiming himself to be brave and strong in front of the audiences, it wasn't a compliment.

Salazar tipped his head down, barely noticeable. "Your funeral, Snivellius," he said.

Hogwarts pulsed in agreement.


	6. Your Favourite Kind of Spider

_-Chapter Five-_

_Your Favourite Kind of Spider_

* * *

**A/N: **I am very happy~!_ So happy~!_

You guys are awesome you know? Reading your reviews, realizing that_ so many_ people like this story and are following it... Really, guys. You are making me write sappy stuff, you horrible miracle workers *snicker*

So. You liked how I handled Snape? Thank you! The slimy git was so difficult to write. I believe I said so earlier, but I'm really happy to have that part over with. Harry could have squashed Snape if he'd really wanted to. But canon Harry was too Gryffindor for politics, so yeah. Shame on you, four eyes.

About Ron: He's human, but I don't like him. We'll see how he grows as a character. Right now I don't have any specific plans for him. He'll have to enjoy the ride :D

That said, Salazar is the only revived founder in existence. Sorry to disappoint, guys, but too many OP characters make for a very dull read. No Hermione/Rowena stuff for me, meaning you don't get to see that happening here.

Coming next: Salazar plots, the conniving bastard. He's having so much fun in my sandbox. It's just so not fair!

* * *

**Disclaimer: **JKR's babies are not mine.

* * *

The rumour mill in this place was absolutely wonderful. So fast and pliable… Very soon, Salazar took to weave his subtle web like a duck to water. His fangs may have dripped the fast-acting poison, but it was his agents which let it spread and take root.

Salazar was the resident expert in this field. And it was one fucking brilliant field, if he had to say so himself. Blind fear made people loosen their tongues.

Children were no different.

"I knew Snape was bad, but—"

"A Death Eater! Can you believe it? You have to get past a rite of some sort to get the Mark, they told me so—do you think Snape…?"

"Makes sense. The git's always looked shady to me. What's a muggle to someone like him, anyway?"

"But _why_ are you lot only noticing this now? It's like saying you didn't know You Know Who was evil!"

"—yes, he threatened Potter! What's next? We're stuck with Snape in the dungeons for hours! If he's going to kill us for knowing the truth, then he's got thousands of ways to—"

"Shhh! Be quiet!"

Caught off guard, everyone turned around and tried to pretend that they had more important things to do rather than gossip.

Salazar rolled his eyes. They couldn't have been any more obvious.

Snape's already dubious image had taken a huge hit in the last few days. Now a revealed Death Eater, the potions master's presence in the Great Hall was not been well received by most of the castle's inhabitants, with the unremarkable exception of the Slytherins, who watched the other tables warily as they openly reviled their Head of House in their presence. More than usual, anyway. Children, in their minds, were already turning Snape into a trueborn villain, almost a parody of the cartoons Salazar had only glimpsed once or twice in Dudley's telly.

You had to give it to them. These people worked quickly. The castle as a whole was bursting with activity, so much that the climate inside Hogwarts was heating up due to the sheer excitement everyone was feeling.

Even now, they were looking at him from the corner of their eyes, as if he could chase away Snape from the castle and save them from the big scary Death Eater.

Useful sheep, they were.

"They are staring," murmured Hermione.

"They always do," he replied simply, completely unbothered by the attention. After all, his scar was a bit of a celebrity of its own; the only thing that rivalled the jagged thing in the popularity scale would be his identity. Gilderoy Lockhart, famous wizard author native to the British Isles, couldn't even begin to compare in that regard. Besides, if things were going in the direction he suspected it was going, he was going to depend a lot on this superfluous fame of his. The chore in question, however, was not to let it be as feeble as he imagined it was.

Neville shifted nervously. The boy clearly had something to say if he was this bothered. The Longbottom scion had been skittish for some time now and it was already getting to Salazar's nerves.

"Is—Is Snape really a Death Eater?" After overcoming some sort of inner struggle, Neville blurted out the question almost soundlessly. The boy was staring blankly at the floor, as if it was the best thing since that legendary wizard Salazar had been hearing so much about- Merlin.

The founder's mood took a steep dip for the time being. His eyes darkened at the memory of the sheer depravity he remembered seeing in Malfoy's arm. Snape's was, predictably, just as bad. "Yes. Check the inner part of the left forearm, that's where the Mark usually is. Snape has it hidden under his robes— so I wouldn't be surprised if there isn't a day when he doesn't wear sleeves," he said.

Looking overwhelmed by the tidbit of information, Neville choked in his own saliva. Salazar absently wondered if he was going to be sick.

Hermione pursed her lips and creased her forehead. "Usually?… Oh, Harry, you knew?" she asked, almost afraid of the response. The things she'd read about Voldemort's Death Eaters were not for the weak-hearted and Salazar had been warning her against Snape practically from the get-go.

"Not really," he said to their ears only—and everyone in the vicinity. "I can't detect the Mark from afar. My suspicions were based on his hostility, rather than any concrete evidence." He wasn't going to tell them about the letters just yet. Those were private. "At first, I thought it was product of the grudge against my father, but that theory was soundly disproved once he came close."

They sat, pondering about what he'd said.

"How… How does it—?" Neville began.

"Feel?" Salazar guessed. He grimaced. "I don't know how to describe it exactly. It's made out of ink— or what appears to be ink at first glance." The founder paused, wondering how to phrase this. "Picture a snake—this snake wells in the Mark, and while sickly-looking, it still grooms the skull from which she sliders out of occasionally. That's what's easy to detect— the movement is really conspicuous. It—_wiggles_ as it feeds on the magical core of the wizard. Like a leech. So it grows. And it's never satisfied." Salazar sighed. They used to subject it only on the terrible- those who were considered a severe threat to society. Their muggles had been considered such at the time. "It's an abomination," he said. Because it was. His father had rejected it after his grandfather had presented him with the formula, for he had used it and abused it, and Salazar had seen no reason to enslave someone's soul to his for eternity.

Even if they _were_ a slave's.

Both Hermione and Neville shuddered at the mental picture he was describing. The rest of the room mirrored their reaction.

"Please tell me you haven't met someone else with the Mark, Harry," she pleaded in a hush.

"Sorry, Hermione, but Lucius Malfoy was also branded when I met him in Diagon Alley," Salazar gave her an apologetic look. "If it weren't for that last bit—you know, the whole leeching magic thing—I would have thought they were starting something of a trend here."

Students were listening intently around them, although Neville and Hermione didn't seem to notice.

They didn't disappoint. Their brilliant eavesdroppers started murmuring furiously amongst themselves.

The two children flinched in realization. Salazar smirked knowingly at them and they flushed in embarrassment.

"Did you hear? A trend—a bloody trend, he said! How many more—"

"Merlin's beard, Lucius Malfoy has the Mark too! The Minister must be in the secret!"

"Morgana forbid—! If Minister Fudge knows then what's stopping him from joining them in their ranks?"

Scandalous, right? The possibilities of the current administration backing Voldemort's former supporters… Salazar wanted them to spread the word, rather than just have them sit on their arses and do nothing but twiddle their thumbs. Salazar was determined, if nothing else, to make matters difficult for those who opposed him. And the portly little man who was currently in charge had proved himself to be too unreliable—as fickle as the tides of public opinion, in fact—to be in in possession of his title so far. Damningly, Lucius' gold was so far up his arse that he wouldn't cooperate with Salazar should need to appeal to him for help if the time came up.

There was also the matter of Sirius Black, which he had to address because of a forgone conclusion: anything was better than those pathetic Dursleys.

If his godfather, read: 'guardian', was indeed innocent as he suspected, then he needed to outsmart those who didn't want him gone of Azkaban. He imagined that people like Lucius Malfoy wouldn't care for the idea of a trial for the one and only truly Lord Black, meaning that Fudge wouldn't either.

So, luring it was.

Neville whimpered, losing colour quickly.

Hermione bit her lip, looking a little self-conscious with all the attention they were getting from the others, although Salazar was quite sure that she had lots of questions brewing in that puzzling mind of hers. "Maybe we should discuss this somewhere… more private?"

Salazar looked at her. "Fair enough," he consented. The damage inflicted on Snape's—and thus, Dumbledore's—reputation was still significant and he was pleased with the progress so far. "We still have some time until Herbology. Fancy taking a little detour?"

Away from prying eyes. Well, that would have been a tall order, had Salazar not known exactly where to go. Truth was, he wasn't completely sure whether or not he should show them to the Room, but he was fairly certain at this point that they wouldn't go around blabbing about his secrets willingly.

Perhaps, that could be a little test—although some time later and not now. Definitely not. Not when he was beginning to know them and get a feel of their personalities.

Little more than a week had passed and he was already considering this.

Ludicrous.

"Harry? Where are we going?" Hermione asked.

"Have you met Hagrid?" He continued when he saw them nod, "He was kind enough to invite over to his cabin for some tea and said that I could bring more people. I just figured you'd want to tag along and relax a bit."

That had them agree to the impromptu visit quickly enough.

It had been quite the pleasant surprise when Hagrid's letter arrived in Noctua's talons on Friday morning. Salazar hadn't many people who would willingly write to him and Mrs. Figg's reports on Privet Drive came in during the night, so he hadn't expected it.

Certainly, Salazar hadn't been convinced at the time, as he had only just met the half man, but he was now glad that he had accepted the half-giant's invitation, even if it was a few days later. Seeing the children's shoulders slump even so slightly in relief pleased him substantially. He hadn't intended to heap a lot of stress on them when he had pulled his stunt with Snape. Neville more than Hermione; the mere mention of the Death Eaters had affected the boy deeply and Salazar had every intention to find out why that was.

There was a hunch, however, gnawing on his gut.

A terrible, terrible hunch.

Salazar's inner snake hissed angrily in his chest.

Nevertheless, Hagrid's ever friendly disposition was more than welcome by the two children, though Salazar's stay in the cabin would have been even more enjoyable if he hadn't been slobbered all over the face by Hagrid's ugly mutt.

Long story short, Neville almost died trying to eat one of Hagrid's rock cakes (the thing had gone down his breathing pipe), Hermione almost gave herself a heart attack over the whole deal and Salazar almost feared for their lives.

That had to be some kind of record. To have so many brushes with death in a week... That was what he liked to call Bad Luck.

All in all, the trip was good, despite its obvious setbacks.

At the end of it, the former founder could freely admit that he was slightly envious of Hagrid's vast zoological knowledge. It made for a good topic to discuss over tea, however. Quite simply, Salazar was in need of another creature to replace the gaping hole the Basilisk had left since its _unfortunate_ passing and here he had a walking dictionary, ready to answer everything he asked without suspecting a thing.

"Have you ever tried teaching Care of Magical Creatures?" Salazar inquired curiously. Hagrid's talents were being deliberately wasted by Dumbledore by letting the half-giant rot here, in this cabin, or so he thought.

Hagrid blushed under his dark facial bush. "It hasn't come up yet," he said, a bit wistfully. The desire was plain in the half-giant's face.

About that... Well, things could change. It was easy to see that he had the half-giant's trust by now—it wouldn't hurt to have him as a Professor if Kettleburn ever wanted to hand over the position to another.

_'You can never have too many allies'_ was officially Salazar's new motto.

"You'd do great, Hagrid," Neville assured him with a faintly raspy voice.

Hagrid beamed beatifically at the three of them.

Of the topics they had touched during the brief visit, Occamy sounded like a wonderful prospect for a new pet. The added advantage of it being part snake was also promising, if not a very good bonus to an experienced snake charmer like him. It would prove quite the challenge to tame and the species didn't have too many glaring weaknesses for it to be a burden. But really, neither had the Basilisk and it had been a real shame to find out later that the crow of a rooster could inflict so much damage with so little effort.

Its death had been pathetic. A stupid Gryffindor would have charged ahead with a sword in hand and made the encounter a little bit more interesting. Salazar had only conjured thousands of roosters while the statue's entrance had been sealed shut and the beast was already dead at his feet within the hour.

Speaking of which, he still had its carcass on storage. He would need to look into what potions he could brew with what he had. The skin was definitely a priority. Seeing how many enemies he seemed to have, it was a matter of time before someone took a potshot at him when he wasn't watching. An extra layer of protection wouldn't hurt anyone, lest of all him.

Engrossed on his thoughts as he was, Salazar didn't notice the cropped article of the _Daily Prophet _lying on the floor, but Hermione certainly did.

"GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST?" she read, tilting her head. She picked it up. _"Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown. Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day. "But we're not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what's good for you," said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon."_ She looked up the article to Hagrid, who was suspiciously very reluctant to look at anyone in the eye.

Neville blinked at the sudden change of topic and Salazar perked up with interest. As far as he knew, his vaults hadn't been touched—without a doubt, he would have been notified if they had been or there would be hell to pay.

Hagrid took the paper from her, face flushed with anger—at himself, Salazar realized belatedly. The half-giant was angry at himself for being so careless in the placement of the article, for whatever reason.

"Why do you have an article on that, Hagrid?" Neville asked, honestly curious. "Gringotts' break-in was so long ago…"

"What I don't understand is why anyone would not want to steal anything if they had managed to bypass the goblin's security," Hermione said. "Why go through all that trouble only to escape without taking anything?"

Salazar only stared. His attempts at Legilimency weren't working on Hagrid.

"Time to go back to class, yeh three," Hagrid rumbled nervously as he hid the paper the way a felon would something incriminatory. "Yeh're late as it is."

The three students exchanged a glance, knowing that he was right, before awkwardly bidding the half-giant their subdued goodbyes.

Rather than discourage them, though, Hagrid's abrupt about-face would remain fresh in their minds for the reminder of the afternoon.

* * *

The _Daily Prophet _was a load of shite. But a load of informative shite, Salazar determined days after the incident. Obvious sensationalism aside, there were brief instances where Salazar found himself to be thoroughly enjoying what he read.

More than a handful of reporters had taken turns to make a fool out of Dumbledore for allowing a former Death Eater to teach in his school. There were lots quotes, which were from supposedly concerned parents, demanding Snape to be sacked from his post quickly, so as to reduce the danger to their children. Somewhat surprisingly, in spite of all the pressure from the public, the potions master remained steadfastly unmovable from where he stood despite the evident outrage this brought.

Dumbledore's response to the articles was still pending.

Even juicier still, some Rita Skeeter witch was absolutely vicious in her ridicule of the Minister and Lucius Malfoy. Fudge was specially described as 'a bumbling fool', 'a Dark Lord sympathizer' and 'an obsolete dingbat' for knowingly associating himself with someone whose claims of Imperius were largely questioned by 'any respectable wizard with half the intelligence our current dear ol' Minister is displaying'.

Cornelius Fudge's response was still pending.

Lucius Malfoy's response was still pending.

Salazar smirked. He was quite aware of the fact that Lucius' whelp was glaring at him from across the Hall.

Draco Malfoy. A Slytherin.

How cute.

Looking up from his food, Salazar raised his goblet at him and winked at the blond. He enjoyed the boy's enraged expression for what it was, for a budding enmity with him was nothing to be wary of.

Lucius, on the other hand… Well, that ship had sailed a long time ago. The war between them had already been declared, for the better or the worse. But to Salazar it had soon become apparent that all those who remained of Voldemort's lapdogs were a threat to his well-being. They hadn't hesitated in burning down their proverbial bridges with him and in doing so they had tipped their hand.

_They had made him their enemies._

A troll would have hesitated. If they had thought him easy prey, then they were in for an unpleasant surprise. He wasn't about to let them walk all over him like some little gullible boy.

And this way, his reputation as a hot-headed Gryffindor was now secure. Salazar would have hated to let down his peers. Really.

The founder stirred the liquid of his goblet and he smiled contently.

This was simply delicious.

To top it all, Snape had kept the detentions in place, not revoking the point reduction either.

As soon as they caught wind of this, the Gryffindors were understandably angry with Snape—some of the Gryffindors even blaming Harry Potter- him-for allowing it to get that far, but most of them were backing up his decision not to show up to any of his detentions.

The Weasley twins obviously approved and made their opinion known every time they crossed paths in the most obnoxious way possible.

Now there was glitter even in his shoes. They probably planned for it from the very beginning, though.

"This won't end good," Hermione warned him seriously. "You're seriously pushing it, Harry."

Salazar nodded and smiled widely at her. "That's the idea, Hermione," he said.

"But, why would you…? Oh, you're terrible!" she exclaimed. Her absolute faith in authority had been shaken, but it was still there. Only weaker with every article she read.

Neville didn't look up from his breakfast. He didn't touch it either.

"What's next on schedule?"

Hermione checked and gulped. "Broomstick practice with Madam Hooch."

Neville groaned miserably. Apparently he had been aware of that fact.

"That bad?" he asked anyway.

Neville nodded weakly. His nerves were shot to hell and not even his grandmother's gift, which had been delivered by a barn owl that morning, would cheer him up. If anything, the Remembrall's bright scarlet shine had left him more downtrodden than he already was, as he had greedily devoured _Quidditch Through the Ages _the moment Hermione had stumbled upon the book in the library. The fact that it was red at all could have meant that he'd _forgotten _some of the facts he'd read on and it terrified him.

Salazar grimaced. Suddenly, brooms didn't seem like such a good idea.

For one, Neville had never been on a broomstick in his life. He told them that was because his grandmother had never let him near one. Privately, although he would never voice it aloud, Salazar felt she'd had a good reason in mind, because Neville managed to have an extraordinary number of accidents even with both feet on the ground. Tripping with the air was not a skill anyone should aspire to have.

Hermione Granger was almost as nervous about flying as Neville was. Bushy, bookish and brainy, she was not made for outdoor activities. Flying was something you couldn't learn by heart out of a book — not that she hadn't tried.

The more he learnt about Quidditch, though, the more Salazar shied away from it. There was reluctance where there had been excitement before. And really, the Floo as a means of travel was vastly more promising than what a dusty old broomstick had to offer. He wasn't interested in having an accident so soon, thank you very much.

It was almost as if the three of them were lining up in a cue to meet with a very hungry Nundu, Salazar thought. Just waiting for a disaster to happen. And something would. Bloody Gryffindor would have loved it. Probably one of his descendants had even suggested it.

Salazar still dreaded being related to the untoward gnome. It wasn't something he could just _forget._

"Let's talk about something else," Hermione determined.

"Like what?"

"Like the fact that Sally-Anne is still missing!" Hermione said heatedly.

_And the ghosts,_ Salazar reflected. He had a pretty solid theory about that. They had confined themselves to the third floor for some unknown reason. Shortly after his arrival, in fact.

Salazar pocked his food with his fork. "She's not," he said.

Neville blinked up to him. "She's not?"

"She's gone," Salazar informed them emotionlessly. "Professor McGonagall claimed she said that she wasn't in the right frame of mind when she quit Hogwarts, but unfortunately she wouldn't hear anything about staying in the school. Something spooked her so badly she renounced her magic so that she could live peacefully as a muggle."

Hermione gasped. "But that's awful! What could have happened to her?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea," Salazar said. "It isn't like McGonagall was forthcoming in her reasons either. She left the castle just yesterday."

"Yesterday! How come I didn't see her leaving?" Hermione jumped on her seat to lean over the servings on the table. "I never saw her coming into our bedroom and her bed was always untouched!"

Neville was still gaping. "But to willingly reject your magic…" The notion was too foreign to him.

The boy took an unsteady a sip from his goblet.

Salazar smirked at him. "Neville, you wouldn't last long with the muggles, I bet. You were raised in the Wizarding World. You wouldn't know where to go or what to do. On the other hand, Sally-Anne is a muggleborn; she'll be just fine."

"Fair enough, I suppose," Neville sighed.

Salazar smirked wickedly. "Maybe you should consider signing up in Muggle Studies when our third year comes up, though. It might even top Quirrel's teachings." During which, Neville always fell asleep. He was always mortified when Salazar pointed out he had been drooling in his sleep.

Neville sputtered incoherently.

"Oh, don't tease him, Harry!" Hermione glared at him. She turned to Neville. "I could teach you, Neville! If you want to, of course… I could ask for some books from my parents to get you started with the basics, like appliances and muggle money. I could even invite you over in the holidays so you can see how London looks like."

Neville looked a bit dazed, but he didn't miss the slight tremor in Hermione's voice. "Yeah," he smiled at her. "I'll have to ask Gran, but it sounds like good fun, Hermione."

She beamed at her friend, all too pleased by his comment.

Hermione looked at Salazar with bright eyes. "Are you coming too, Harry? Your family are also muggles, right?"

Salazar nodded. "My aunt and uncle do have a house in Surrey," he said simply.

Hermione absorbed the new piece of information with a small grin. "Well, I live in Kensington. We could come together at some point in the summer and see the sights—the three of us! Oh, and I hear that the Natural History Museum will have a great exhibit come July. How does that sound to you?"

Salazar had expected the invitation, but it was heart-warming all the same. To show his approval, he took her hand and bushed his lips with it in an affectionate gesture.

Hermione's face was beet-red when he looked up.

Salazar was amused by her embarrassment. He was also picturing Neville's face when he saw what was in store for him. The museum-the science of it-would blow away his poor wizard mind.

His smile grew wider.

"I'll look forward to it," he said.

Neville laughed quietly at the dumb look on her face.

Their female friend smacked his head with a book. "Oh, do shut up, Neville! And you, Harry! You'd better understand the importance of personal space!" The red of her face was more pronounced now. Her hand rubbed the place where she'd felt Salazar's lips kiss her. "We should tell Justin what happened," Hermione mumbled as a means to change the conversation. "He was the one bring it to our attention, after all."

Still thoroughly entertained in spite of her efforts to appear dignified, Salazar took the change of topic in stride.

"Shall we?" he asked rhetorically, getting up.

Together, they went to the Hufflepuff table, where Justin would receive the news with shock and dismay. His housemates weren't any better off, but this opportunity was as a good as any to introduce themselves to the Hufflepuffs. Hannah Abbot and Ernie Macmillan seemed agreeable enough.

Faced with such a mystery, however, the children vowed to look into the truth of Sally-Anne's disappearence.

Not as interested, Salazar just nodded along.

* * *

A disaster. Well, that was one way to put it. But at least it was Malfoy and Weasley who had a severe talking to by Madam Hooch. Malfoy for baiting Salazar with Neville's Remembrall and Weasley for going along with the brat's obvious taunts.

Poor Neville. The boy's luck never ceased to disappoint. The poor lad could have broken his wrist because of a faulty broom—would have in all honesty if Salazar hadn't been there and intervened in the nick of time with a strong cushioning charm.

The Longbottom scion had bounced off the floor when he'd fallen, just like he said he did in his story. With luck, everyone would suspect a bout of accidental magic coming from him rather than external help. Wandless magic, as so it happens, was very hard to master. Muck ups like that would land him in a tight spot someday, he just knew it. A first year like him had no business knowing a lot of what he did, but he also knew he was getting attached to these two. It was hard not to do anything when he was perfectly able to do so—hence his rushed actions.

_Lady Magic grant him guidance!_ He was going just hoped that his father— his former father, the one who taught him the importance of subtlety—wasn't rolling in his grave after witnessing that blunder.

For her part, Madam Hooch had convinced herself that Neville couldn't be allowed to continue with the lesson after the fall. No matter what, she couldn't be persuaded that he hadn't sustained damage from the accident.

And with reason.

Salazar was the possibly the most understanding boy out of all the protesting first years. Even with magic one had to be cautious not to get hurt. It was a gift, yes—but someone with magic wasn't automatically anyone remotely impervious to the fallings of the human body. That meant that bones could be broken—and a person could die just as easily as a mundane muggle.

People like Malfoy really needed that grim reminder.

And Weasley needed to see a mind healer for a long overdue check-up. It couldn't be natural to be this retarded. His stupidity had cost Gryffindor twenty points for badmouthing Neville in front of the professor. It wouldn't be the first time—or the last, for that matter.

Just as Neville was about to be escorted to the Infirmary, it happened.

He could hear everyone draw in a sharp gasp the moment they also noticed.

"Harry," Hermione warned him quietly.

"I know," he said.

"Merlin, is that…?" Madam Hooch grew paler than she already was, making her golden eyes seem all the more unnatural in contrast.

Neville, caught in her arm, was also looking quite shocked.

Well, everyone's observations skills seemed to be in top notch at least. He'd be horribly worried about them otherwise. That lime green bowler hat on the man's head was a big giveaway. The Minister's face even more so.

He had to say, the entire entourage that shadowed Cornelius Fudge as he stormed out of the castle was simply overkill. He could see just see Madam Bones, the Head of the DMLE, mingling with the mass of heads heading towards them.

His pupil contracting minutely, not unlike a snake's, Salazar's face was carefully devoid of any emotion as he watched them from afar.

This—wasn't entirely unexpected. He'd even anticipated it, actually. He'd only been caught by surprise, as he hadn't thought the minister would seek him out himself without calling him to the headmaster's office.

Caught by surprise… Odd thing, that. Salazar Slytherin wasn't the type of wizard to drop his guard. It was the kind of mistake that got you killed. It shouldn't have happened and he vowed to himself it wouldn't from now on.

Unnoticeable to the students, his finger drew a circle in the air. The rune shone only for a split of second.

Hogwarts was immediately up in arms.

"Minister! I must insist—!" McGonagall exclaimed.

"Where's the boy at?" asked Fudge, looking at them from afar. "Spreading senseless rumours about Death Eaters—he couldn't possibly know what he was even hinting at!"

McGonagall looked ready to faint from shock. "There's no need for the Ministry to punish a first year over such a silly thing such as gossip!"

_"Hem, hem," _a woman with a pink cardigan and a flabby, toad-like face coughed into her hand. "Excuse me. I believe I misheard you, Minerva. It is the Ministry's job to decide whether or not a wizard goes unpunished, is it not? Why are you obstructing us when we are only doing our duty?"

McGonagall sputtered. "Duty! But of course it is, but—"

"Professor McGonagall, please stand down and let us through," one of the Aurors said.

The woman sighed and got out of their way. "He's a good boy. I assure you, you are all overreacting," she said.

"Regardless, the boy has made quite the ruckus," the toad-like woman simpered sweetly in a highly pitched voice. "If he continues to disrupt the balance, we'll all face the consequences. He must be stopped."

"Now, where is he?" Fudge asked testily. "Where is Harry Potter? I don't see him here. Are you leading us in circles, witch?"

Salazar could feel everyone's eyes on him. He drew in a deep breath, feeling keenly Hogwarts' presence watching everyone through his eyes. He ignored the concerned stares they were shooting at his back as he began to walk away from them.

"Potter!" Madam Hooch hissed after him.

Salazar pretended he didn't hear her.

"Is there a problem, Minister?" Salazar called out once he was near enough.

To quote Skeeter, _the obsolete dingbat_ noticed him soon enough.

"Harry! There you are!" Fudge smiled. It was a small, forced thing as the wizard known as the Minister of Magic bumbled towards him. The small man glanced quickly at his scar. "We were just looking for you all over the castle."

They were? Why not ask Dumbledore about his schedule? "What for, Minister?"

"Why, you ask?" Fudge sputtered momentarily. "You need to speak with one of our reporters, of course! To publically deny all the insipid claims you made the other day, my dearest boy."

"But I never thought of them as insipid, Minister," Salazar said.

"Oh, codswallop, Harry!" Fudge said. He made to grab him by the arm. "You don't know half the political nightmare you've created with your words. We've got to act now before it's too late to revert the damage!" But before he could touch him, the air shocked his fingers with a mild shock.

Horribly startled, Fudge recoiled with a hiss.

The aurors snapped into attention.

"Minister Fudge!" one of them cried out, brandishing his wand threateningly at Salazar.

The other mirrored him with a nasty snarl. "Potter, one more thing and you'll-!"

"Stand down, aurors!" Amelia Bones snapped. She stared down her hot-headed underlings through her monocle. "Dawlish, that means you as well!"

Grimacing, the brown-haired auror grumbled under his breath, but dropped the threatening posture all the same. Salazar kept an eye on that one.

"Thank you, Madam Bones, for kindly stepping in when I was about to get cursed." The old woman looked surprised that he knew her already. She nodded. "We should probably have this conversation elsewhere," Salazar offered with a pleasant smile.

Cornelius nodded eagerly, holding his hand, apparently forgetting about the way he had zapped him. "Absolutely! The headmaster should be present for this. His office should suffice."

_Oh? _Salazar's impassive mask did not crack.

Hogwarts shuddered with anticipation.

"Well, then," Salazar said. "I hope you don't mind leading me there, Minister?"


	7. A Day of Ripe Old Age

_-Chapter Six-_

_A Day of Ripe Old Age_

* * *

**A/N:** Happy New Year! It's been a while since I've done one of these. Luckily, my muse has returned and I am back for more! One thing. Please do me a favour and tell what you think about this chapter. It's an odd one so I'm a bit wary of posting this. The whole time I was bullshitting like crazy.

Thank you for the faves, the follows and your comments! When I started I never thought I would get this far! Thank you for all the support!

I still have no beta. I am a sad, sad girl... XD Not.

* * *

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

* * *

Severus knelt down. His eyes roamed Albus' skin for a close inspection of the damage with a glint of appreciation at the obscure handiwork.

"What can you tell me, Severus?" Albus asked softly.

"The curse is spreading," Severus said absently. "You could do with another doze of Phoenix Tears now after I leave. With them you can continue to lessen the effects until we can perform a cleansing ritual the next full moon. It is very fortunate of you to have your familiar so at hand, Headmaster."

Albus smiled grimly at his employee. He could never tell for certain when the man was being purposely sarcastic.

"Your information has done a long way to lift my spirits, my boy," he said mildly. "What about the caster? Is the curse traceable?"

"It is not," Severus said, inspecting Albus belly and the protruding black veins infesting the area. Under his watchful eyes, he could see the curse struggling to gain more ground, but also failing to keep up with the remedy; for now, its influence was only concentrated in the stomach. Severus had long known that the curse was self-sufficient. It was a humbling spectacle which few could hope to recreate, to his knowledge. "I cannot tell which curse is in the first place. Luckily, your tears can heal the damage caused by the foreign magic, and it does seem to be reversible, but you have no hope of ridding yourself of the curse itself without any assistance. Whatever spawned inside you, it has taken hold of your core and it's feeding on your own power. Your Phoenix is only a temporary solution—hardly a sufficient answer in the long run."

Severus let go of the headmaster's robes, letting the fine material cover Albus' modesty once more.

"What could have caused it?" Albus asked, a worried look crossing his face.

"Definitely not by ingestion, if you are wondering. No poison I know could have caused this," Severus drawled, packing his things slowly. He left two small vials on his table. "This was done by wand point, point blank. Preferably while your back was turned to intensify the maliciousness of the spell."

_When? How? _Albus wondered silently. He promptly indigested the pain relieving potions and immediately sighed in relief. What was at fault with the Fawkes' tears had nothing to do with its healing properties, but rather the lack of effect over the increasing ache of his malady. He could hardly ask his friend for more at the first sign of discomfort and he was feeling the curative properties of the tears begin to wane. Albus thanked his luck for having Severus, arguably the best potions master in Britain, at his service, for he was sure that he would have been a lot more desperate otherwise.

"The next full moon will be in a week, Headmaster," Severus told him. "You should consider asking for assistance to other people; we'll need at least four more wizards to complete the circle. Some extra protection against possible interference from dark creatures would be also recommended."

Albus didn't want to ask for help, but he could see the logic in what Severus was saying. After that unfortunate encounter between the potions master and a changed Remus, Severus had never been quite the same. The old wizard knew that had been a turning point for the young man; he had begun to resent the Marauders more strongly than ever before, although Albus could admit that the resentment was entirely justified since Sirius Black had practically lured him out of the castle to get him killed—or worse, turned. Severus had wanted to see for himself what the group of troublemakers were doing out so late, only to be confronted by a monster. That night would scar deeply the man before him and Albus had no doubts that if he refused the potion master's request he would reconsider aiding him. And that was something that, while he could afford, wouldn't act in his best interest.

Albus sighed gravely and thought about his options. _Alastor wouldn't mind assisting me and surely Dedalus could be persuaded to take an Unbreakable Vow, much like Arthur... _Other volunteers would have to be considered carefully. Albus was not risking this carefully warded secret getting out from these walls. The public would panic and many at the Ministry would try to strip him of his positions if they saw he was weak.

"Alas, things cannot be always simple," he murmured.

"Never anything in life is merely simple, Headmaster."

Albus eyed the potions master, considering him carefully. He smiled. Might as well throw him a bone. If it was Quirrel who was causing all these stirrings in the castle, it would be in their best interests to drive him out sooner—never mind what he'd planned for the Stone. If Voldemort had touched him so easily, he wasn't having Harry confronting him for another few years.

"I fear something is eluding us," he said.

Black tunnels stared back. "I fear the same thing, Headmaster. The fool, Quirrel, has returned changed from his little vacation from Albania," Severus sneered derisively. "He hides his secrets well, but I have heard him talk to himself when he thinks he is alone; I recognize the signs of a dark ritual."

"Dark, indeed," Albus nodded, looking quite pained. "It might be best to have that man watched for now—the paintings will have to do until I locate the ghosts—and it never hurts to be prepared. In the meanwhile, I must ask you to find out what he wants."

"I'm already on it."

"Ah, yes. Always ahead of me, Severus." The headmaster smiled at his potions master. "Your work is commendable, as it always is. You have my most thanks for your timely intervention today as well."

Severus vowed his head slightly. "Now, if you have nothing else to discuss, Headmaster, I would like to take my leave. I need to prepare for tomorrow and the dunderheads I have to attend to. My only reprieve is that the Longbottom menace won't be there to try to melt his caldron and make a mess of himself," he sneered.

"Students, Severus," Albus corrected him automatically. "Why you insist to call them that is beyond me. And I feel like you are being too harsh on that boy, Neville."

"If you had to endure what I have, you would be of a different mind, Headmaster."

Albus sighed. "Whatever you do, continue as normal. Do try not to snap under scrutiny, Severus. It will not do you any good if you end up cursing Harry in front of many witnesses."

The potion master's patience snapped at the mention of his rival's son. "The Potter brat and his article are the reason why—"

Just as Severus was about to begin his tirade, the headmaster straightened in his seat. Blue eyes narrowed in bewilderment and surprise.

Someone was standing outside of his office.

"We have a visitor," he announced. The school's wards hadn't told him of anyone visiting, which was most troubling. They had travelled all the way up to his office undetected. Seeing how Quirrel was still on the grounds, that was most unacceptable.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw one of his portraits hurrying out to see for himself who'd circumvented his defences.

Severus' countenance changed immediately. He glanced at the entrance over his shoulder like it had done him a personal grievance. His posture turned defensive.

"Meddlesome busybodies," Severus seethed quietly.

Albus didn't say anything. He waited impatiently as he saw some of the portraits gossip upon the other's return. Typically the usual behaviour of his portraits wouldn't have bothered him, but now he felt especially high-strung.

He cleared his throat.

"Should we be worried, Armando?" he said to the nearest of the lot.

"Depends, Headmaster. It's the Minister and his entourage. I see Amelia Bones and some Aurors. They also have Harry Potter with them, why that is I wouldn't be able to say, but the boy didn't look too worried when I saw him," Armando Dippet said, frowning thoughtfully.

_Harry Potter? What have you done now, Cornelius?_

"Very well," Albus nodded placidly, although internally he was puzzled with the information. Young Harry should have been in his first broomstick practice if things had gone according to the school's schedule. He turned to his the potions master, frown in place. "Severus—"

"I'll go through the trap door," he said morosely.

"Please," Albus nodded gratefully.

With his permission, one of the biggest portraits in his office swung open and allowed the sallow-skinned man passage. Severus slinked through quietly, levitating potion ingredients and the like in front of him. The young man vanished into the darkness soon after and would soon reappear down in the dungeons. It was a tight fit; with a spinning stairwell going so far down, it was impossible not to feel claustrophobic. It was no wonder Severus was so reluctant to part that way, as even he would feel uncomfortable in such small quarters.

Granting entry to his guests, Albus swallowed one last vial of Phoenix Tears, not wanting to have people second-guess his health. He was running out of them, unfortunately. He made a mental note; he would have to ask his friend for more.

The first to emerge was the stone-faced Amelia Bones, followed by a delegation of four Aurors and the Minister and his Undersecretary. Harry Potter looked so out of place within the group that he was easily identifiable. He was small, smaller than he should be within his age group, but looking exactly just like his father did in his childhood—of course, with the exception of those poisonous eyes staring back at him so intently. Albus contained a sharp exhale of his own making.

His eyes were pure Lily.

Calmly, he tore away his eyes from the young boy and tried not to think about the ghosts of his past. Her sacrifice had been necessary for the Greater Good, as had been James and Sirius'. Remus was still blissfully unaware of what had really happened that night.

Looking at Cornelius' sulking pout, at once, Albus knew what this was about. The Minister was either trying chat up the Boy Who Lived, possibly to establish a politically favourable connection between the two of them—miserably failing—or he was here to force said boy to go back on his word about what he'd said about Death Eaters. Albus had to admit that he could see the benefits of such thing happening, although it would damage Harry's image a bit to have claimed something only to retract it soon after.

He still smiled genially at their group, keeping his posture lax despite the complex setting.

"Welcome Minister, Madam Bones, Senior Undersecretary, Harry, gentlemen," Albus greeted cheerfully. He allowed his face to fall a bit. "I'm afraid that I have this place slightly crowded. We seem to have run out of chairs."

"Oh, the number isn't important! We'll deal with that just fine," Cornelius dismissed his very real preoccupation as he plopped himself on one of the seats. There wouldn't be enough room for everybody. "Come, Harry, next to me, my boy—ah, Dolores, sit here, right where everyone can see you—you too, Amelia…"

A flashbulb flashed, taking Albus slightly by surprise.

"I'll need a seat for myself, Minister," a small man with pepper hair frowned at him from the entourage.

Albus had initially pegged him as an Auror, but now he could see that he wasn't. The middle-aged wizard had a camera in his hands, which he was now tucking inside his robes. His face was somewhat familiar to him as well, although he could see why! A reporter from the _Daily Prophet!_ For some reason, the amusement he could see on Harry's face didn't seem so out of place now.

"Ah—well!" blathered Cornelius, looking panicked around him.

"I had to sacrifice my photographer to come here today, Minister! The least you could do is provide me somewhere to sit!" the reporter exclaimed.

"With due respect, Minister," one of the Aurors stepped forward to address Cornelius. "We could stay outside while you do your business and transfigure something into a chair so you can all fit. The Headmaster is especially capable of conjuring chairs."

"Ah, yes—yes, yes! That will be fine," blathered the Minister, blushing. "You are dismissed, Auror…?"

"Shacklebolt, sir," the dark-skinned Auror said.

The newly elected Minister puffed his chest. "You and the rest of you are dismissed! There is clearly no space to spare here," Cornelius said importantly.

Shacklebolt didn't obey at once, unlike the other two who had come with him, glancing at Amelia with a raised eyebrow.

The Head of the DMLE looked resigned, but she nodded at her subordinate. "Keep close in case we have to call you in," she said.

The Madam Undersecretary harrumphed in distaste, watching the Auror walk away.

"If the Minister tells you to leave, you have to leave!" she muttered to herself.

Amelia, choosing to ignore the jab, looked steadfastly ahead.

The man who had stayed behind didn't wait for the others to provide him with anything, even though Albus was more than willing to conjure a chair for him, instead making a chair out of thin air for himself immediately. At the sound of the door closing, he crossed his legs and took out a clean sheet of parchment for some quick notes.

"Albus Dumbledore," the man began with confidence, looking at him directly in the eye, looking as though he wanted to say much more, "the Minister wants you to be present in this interview as Harry Potter's magical guardian. My name is Arnestus Fenetre—perhaps you've heard of me?"

"I can't say I have," Albus said sadly. "My tight schedule allows me to read the _Daily Prophet _only occasionally."

"I covered your research into the twelve uses of dragon blood." Arnestus wasn't deterred by the lack of recognition from his part, but he was mildly annoyed, judging from the small turn of his lips, which were now pointing downwards. "Brilliant. Harry Potter—" he turned to face the Boy Who Lived, "—you've been spreading some scandalous rumours lately, some of which our readers would like to talk about now."

"Everyone wants to know," Cornelius said intently.

"Everyone," tittered his Undersecretary.

"Okay," the boy said, smiling.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Harry?" Albus interrupted before it could get too far.

"I'm perfectly sure," he said.

This was going to be painful to watch. Albus sighed internally.

"No objections from my part," he said.

The reporter from the Prophet looked like a cat that had caught a canary between its teeth, but just as Arnestus was about to pounce, the Head of the DMLE saw fit to intervene.

"Wait! Before we begin, I must remind you, Arnestus, that Mr. Potter has every right to keep quiet if your questions get out of hand," said Amelia, looking at him through her monocle severely.

The man flushed an unflattering shade of red. "I wouldn't let it get that far, Madam Bones…" stammered Arnestus weakly.

"Regardless, you might want to be careful. Mr. Potter is a minor and is thereby protected by our laws until he turns thirteen. Any signs of purposeful slander will see you detained behind bars in my department at the very least; one year at Azkaban if it gets too much. It is my duty to let Mr. Potter see the end of the day with his rights intact."

Ah, Amelia. How shrewd of her to remind them of the Children Acts...

You could see that Cornelius was now regretting bringing Amelia along, though he couldn't see why he had done it in the first place, but he was also new in the political arena; he played along for now.

"What she said," he stated curtly. The Senior Undersecretary was of similar opinion.

Amelia was keeping her smirk suppressed, but everyone could see she had meant what she had done.

Meanwhile, Arnestus was doing his best to keep his unease from showing.

He cleared his throat. "Harry—may I call you Harry?" he asked tentatively. Harry nodded. "You've defeated the worst Dark Lord of our times as a mere baby. For some reason unknown to us, you were able to rid us of this incredible threat in a matter of a night. We are safe from You Know Who's influence now. His followers—Death Eaters, they called themselves—have been long been locked away by the Ministry. So why are you claiming that there are still among us? That's what we would like to know."

The Minister was nearly bouncing in his seat, trying to get Harry's attention with each crane of his head and making aborted gestures with his hands.

The cool amusement in Harry's eyes was still present.

"I'll answer that question if you answer one of mine," Harry said.

"And what is that?" Arnestus asked.

To his surprise, Harry spoke to Albus and not the one who was asking the questions.

"Is Severus Snape a confirmed Death Eater?" he asked.

Taken off guard, Albus took advantage of their locked eyes and prodded at the boy's mind, getting only vague impressions from him, like his own face showing from Harry's perspective, but not a whisper of any of the thoughts which would tell him what he thought he would achieve from this little inquiry.

Perhaps he had underestimated the Chosen One.

"Severus Snape was an essential piece in the war," he said simply. "His role as a spy helped us save many lives during the confrontation with Voldemort's"—the people inside his office, bar Harry, he noticed with satisfaction, flinched— "dark forces. He's sacrificed much for our cause and thus has my utmost confidence."

Not looking pleased with his response, Harry turned to Amelia, the only one in this room who would tell him a direct answer. "Madam Bones?"

Amelia raised her eyebrow at young boy.

"Yes, he's been confirmed as a past Death Eater, but we've been—" Amelia glanced at Albus with a frown that made her monocle look even more evident on her face, "—assured that he's reformed."

Harry looked incredulous at this. "After no trial to determine whether or not his crimes aren't damnable enough to send him to prison?"

"Our forces were stretched thin at the time. We had no human resources to launch a formal investigation," Amelia defended.

"There is nothing preventing him from getting a trial now," Harry pointed out. "If his position is that secure, there's nothing to be wary of."

What was Harry's issue with Severus? Albus did not know for certain, but he could see the hostility shimmering just under the surface. This could mean bad news for his potions master if he didn't cut in before any more damage was done.

The Prophet was going to have a field day tomorrow. Arnestus looked highly entertained, not minding that he had essentially been forgotten, but keeping up with the discussion around him with his poisoned quill.

"This isn't what we've come for, boy!" Cornelius burst angrily.

"I must agree," Albus said. "Harry, you still haven't given us your answer. Many of us have important duties to attend to afterwards."

"We've come here to give your reporter his interview," Harry said calmly. "I never agreed to tell everyone a lie and I certainly didn't ask for your time. Now that it's begun, let's get on with it. I am not following the Minister's script—or anyone's, for that matter."

"What has the Minister told you to say?" Arnestus asked, practically salivating.

Seeing the danger in that question, Albus stepped in. "Alas, I fear we've meandered off track again."

"No, Headmaster," Harry shook his head. "This is my response and if you'd stop interrupting me I'll give you all a definite answer."

Harry glared at them, ignoring the outraged exclamations in the background.

"Severus Snape is a confirmed Death Eater; you have all heard Madam Bones say it. This is a publically known fact. Now, I've claimed I could sense his Dark Mark and Lucius Malfoy's when he was shopping at Madam Malkin's with his son. This is also true. I don't see why Lucius doesn't come forward himself and try to prove me wrong if he's so convinced that I've told everyone lies. It's a simple matter of visiting Hogwarts and showing off his forearm. I'd like to see the day when that happens. As a matter of fact, I dare Lucius to grow a pair of stones and do it in front of me, right in the middle of Hogwarts. If he was truly an Imperius victim just as he said he was, then he's got nothing to fear from this. The Dark Mark is a form of a contract between You Know Who and his most loyal followers. One of the requirements to obtain it is their willingness to follow his commands. And, as we all know, most of them chose to terrorize Muggles in order to prove themselves worthy. Someone who was just spelled to do something terrible wouldn't do anything for a heartless Dark Lord out of their free will. I know, for one, that I wouldn't join a band of murderous rapists willingly."

"Lies! You lie, boy!" Cornelius barked.

"Which part of what I've said is a lie, Minister? The part where I said I wouldn't join Voldemort?" Albus shuddered with the rest of the room. "The part where I explained how the Dark Mark can be obtained? The part where—"

While Amelia was silently approving of the boy's speech, the rest of them weren't.

"Lucius Malfoy is outstanding citizen! A Pureblood! How dare you, a measly Half-blood, accuse someone of higher standing of such nefarious activities!" Madam Umbridge shrieked.

Harry Potter stared her down from his seat. "I won't be talked at this way. I must ask you, madam, for a formal apology as the last Heir to the Potter name. Failure to do so will end in an immediate Blood Feud with my House. I may be 'a measly Half-blood' but your crass mouth doesn't excuse you for your lack of regard to my person. I am the last Potter and I know better than to listen to you froth at your mouth like a rabid animal."

_Goading. Harry is goading them, _Albus observed.

"Now, Harry, I think it's best you—"

"Respectfully, stay out of it, sir!" Harry spat at him.

Albus was so startled he found himself mute momentarily. Similarly, Cornelius was so out of it that he stood from his chair. Thankfully, his mouth was not making any sounds. The impact of Harry's words was leaving behind a wrecking mess.

Harry knew that all too well. "Voldemort supported the 'Pureblood only' agenda. Outstanding Purebloods means nothing to me, madam, though your morals are in question. If I'm only a Half-blood to you, what about all the Muggleborn? How high do they rank in your eyes? I'm the one who paid for the previous administration's incompetence in blood," he tapped the scar which had made him so famous, so powerful and influential in their society, "and I haven't seen much of an improvement yet."

Suddenly, Albus wondered if tinkering with Harry's Sorting had been a wise choice. Had the boy been in Slytherin—as he suspected he would have been—, people wouldn't have been so willing to listen to everything the boy said. They would have been wary. Their Golden Boy wouldn't have been golden at all. The legend around Harry Potter would have crumbled in a single moment—after the Hat put him in the snake pit, where he would have been met by his peers with disbelief, there would have been doubts. After that realization, all Albus could see now was the silver trim of Harry's school robes, Gryffindor red replaced with dark green—just like his eyes—so Lily—so poisonous, he couldn't stand staring at them for more than a couple of seconds.

The green made Albus look for traces of Tom in the boy. He found the similarities, between Dark Lord and Saviour, fast. What he'd feared was unveiling in front of his. Still, he maintained what he'd said to Minerva that night when they had left him at the Dursley's—if he could have, he wouldn't have removed Harry's scar, mysterious as it was.

"This scar is part of me," Harry said. "It's a curse mark made by your latest Dark Lord and it has given me resources that otherwise I wouldn't have been able to hope for—might even not wished for."

Harry glared at all of them, stretched out in a circle around him, until finally his gaze settled on Cornelius, who, for all accounts, looked close to apoplectic.

"These abilities," he began quietly, "allow me to detect the Dark Marks on his followers' forearms. I tell you've got people who weren't properly prosecuted. I would have thought you would see this as an opportunity—bring justice to the ones wronged in the War—as it was the Death Eaters who attacked and carried out his bidding, while He just plotted from the shadows and hoped for despair."

Arnestus had stopped writing, looking at Harry, transfixed just as everybody as the boy played on their emotions.

"What are you suggesting, Harry? The War has passed. Time has allowed us to heal and move on. People have just begun to get over the death of their loved ones. The wounds you could open, with this interview and your impassioned speeches, do they merit such heartbreak and pain for the sake of vengeance?" Albus said.

Harry, stoic and not the least complacent with his logic, rebutted him. "This is not vengeance. I seek legal action against the murderers and torturers of the Wizarding World. Clearly, not many have moved on if people are so scared of a mere name."

"Saying Voldemort's name was similar to invoking a bloodthirsty demon into their household. Their fear is justified," Albus explained patiently, ignoring the jumping he provoked by speaking his nemesis' name so casually.

"Ten years after he died, sir? I don't think so. The amount of irregularities I've seen in the Death Eater trials—"

"I agree with Albus," Cornelius croaked, wringing his hands as he stared at Harry scornfully. "Inciting panic will get us nowhere—fast! Have you got no sense, boy? Think about what the public will say! The Wizengamot won't like it—no, never have I heard such blasphemy in my life!"

The Senior Undersecretary cleared her throat. "I say we are done here," she said sweetly. "It is clear that Mr. Potter's desire for chaos has maddened his mind. His word can't be trusted; what, he himself said his scar has a connection with You Know Who! He could be the one plotting an insurrection—why, I can see Potter leading an army in a foolish attempt to take over the Ministry in the near future! This will not stand!"

Both Minister and Madam Umbridge stood up, their noses turned upward. The witch regarded the Prophet's reporter with a cruel gaze.

"I'd better not see any of that useless drivel on paper! Potter's defamation campaign against our Ministry has no place in your newspaper!" she said sharply.

Arnestus hugged the parchment to his chest, meeting her gaze squarely with his lip curled in disgust.

"Amelia!" Cornelius barked. "Get up! We are leaving!"

But Amelia was staring ahead, not looking at anything in particular.

Albus watched on, examining the miniscule changes in Harry's expression. He could see fire still burning hot under his rigid exterior. He wasn't nearly done.

"I can see you cannot be persuaded with only words," Harry said, catching the attention of everyone in the room.

"Are you still on that! I warn you! One word, you insolent—!"

"Minister," Amelia cut in.

"You—try—my—patience—!" Cornelius sneered at him.

"Be careful, Cornelius. Beware to who you are who speaking to," Albus murmured.

Amelia looked up sharply at him, having sensed what he did.

A faint aura of power was surrounding Harry. Albus' spine straightened, having felt such pressure previously in his life. Gellert and Tom came to mind, although his aura was considerably tamer than theirs. It gave Albus hope that not all of Harry had been lost to anger and hatred.

Cornelius flinched, but quickly regained his composure—what remained of it. He was trembling under his robes. "He's only one boy!" he said. "Surely—you can't really believe what he's saying? He may have defeated You Know Who for us, but only because of a fluke! And I refuse to bow down to the whims of an attention seeker!"

"As you should, Minister," his Senior Undersecretary said approvingly.

"But he has a point, Cornelius," Amelia pointed out. "The Death Eater trials were most irregular. It would do us good to go through the archives, just in case something has gone past us unnoticed."

"No! I refuse to go back in time! You will not listen to this boy, Amelia!" yelled the Minister.

"I find it very interesting that you don't want to listen, Minister," Harry said.

"You! You don't—!" The words seemed to get stuck in the man's throat.

"I was considering forgoing invoking my Right of Conquest over Voldemort, but I feel like I have no other choice," Harry said.

"What are you on about, boy? What conquest?" Cornelius asked, looking at his Undersecretary. She was just as befuddled as he was.

"More harmless threats, Cornelius," she said. "He's a child, obviously. He can't know about our laws!"

"On the contrary, Dolores," Amelia said briskly. "The Right of Conquest hasn't been used for centuries, yet it still exists in our law books. It cannot be removed since it's tied to our lands and our sovereign over them. It's part of the First Laws, one of the most primal kinds of magic. The Ministry's role in this case is merely supervising that the final sentence is carried out. If the claim is valid and the opponent isn't there to dispute the claim, then everything they had in life goes to the winner. Lady Magic herself judges if a claim is legitimate or not and the final decision cannot be disputed by anyone."

Albus could feel the sharp panic course through his veins.

"Amelia is right. However, that doesn't mean you can seize someone's possessions, Harry! We are talking about thousands of wizards and witches on the line!" Albus tried to intervene.

"Thousands, sir? That many people served Voldemort in his prime? How do you know this, sir? And why shouldn't I do this? You may have done nothing as Chief Warlock, but I'm a survivor and I won't let their actions slide. In the Muggle world, these people would have been sentenced to time in prison—justly—because criminals must be tried for their crimes. Keep in mind that the Death Eaters were responsible for the murders of not only countless Muggleborn families, but they were responsible for many other disappearances and deaths on the Pureblood side as well. The only people I should affect by claiming my Right of Conquest are those who willingly devoted themselves to Voldemort. Those who bear his Mark. I find myself outnumbered here. Clearly, no one here is even going to give me the benefit of the doubt. I may be telling the truth, but you are all too afraid to confront what I say. I see no other way; I'll have to demand retribution through other means."

Cornelius had enough. "Amelia! Arrest that boy!"

"But under what charges, Minister?" Amelia asked calmly.

He stared at the woman as if she was a dumb troll. "Didn't you hear threatening us, woman? He'll leave us starving in the streets if he goes on!"

"He only threatened to seize the accounts of Death Eaters, something that isn't in the least illegal. It's entirely up to him if he wants to go further with this. Just who are you defending here, Minister?"

Cornelius sputtered incoherently.

"Minister Fudge," Harry began, fixing him a hard stare, "if you don't want me to do anything extreme, I suggest you go over the files of the Death Eater trials. I am particularly interested in Sirius Black's; according to the goblins, he is my godfather and I couldn't find anything about the circumstances of his imprisonment. The Prophet only said what he was guilty of and that he was shipped off to Azkaban almost immediately."

Sirius Black. Albus did not want that man out of prison, not if he could help it. But who had told him about his so-called betrayal?

"That man was the one who betrayed your parents, Harry," he said.

"What evidence do you have that he really did?"

Albus didn't even blink at the retort, although he did take notice how rude Harry was acting. "I was present when the Potters cast the Fidelius over their property. In fact, I was the one who provided the necessary power to place the wards who would protect your family. And it was Sirius Black who swore he would be the Secret Keeper and betrayed their location to Voldemort. After that, he hunted down a family friend of your parents and murdered him as well. The name of that poor man was Peter Pettigrew; all what remained of him was a finger. The aftermath of that encounter cost many Muggles their lives, lost in a massive explosion, product of Dark Magic."

Albus paused, revising what he said. Harry's face hadn't even twitched during his explanation. An explanation was in order, he thought. The boy didn't understand why Sirius Black had been so instrumental in his parents' death.

"Excuse the long-winded ramblings of an old man, my boy. I can see I've confused you. I'll explain. The Secret Keeper is the person who is entrusted to keep the—"

"I know what that is," Harry nodded reluctantly. "Even so, even if Sirius Black is guilty of betraying my parents, there is nothing more terrible than a miscarriage of justice, as I'm sure you'll agree, madam. Nothing has been done to prove whether he's truly guilty or not."

"Certainly, Mr. Potter," Amelia said. "In the event that he is innocent, the Ministry has sentenced a guiltless man to lifetime of prison. That is something I won't have in my watch. Until he receives a proper trial, he ought to have the benefit of the doubt."

Albus couldn't really refute that without drawing suspicion to himself.

"And then there were rumours that the Black Family cast Sirius out of the family tree," Harry said. "And everyone knows how the Blacks were."

Practitioners of the blackest of arts, not that Albus would admit to anything now. Harry was digging a big hole and he could only watch in admiration and wariness as he buried his targets alive.

"Now, now," Cornelius said. His body was covered in sweat, "the evidence left behind that day was clear on Black' culpability. Crouch didn't make a mistake in placing him in Azkaban! Black was insane! There's no need—"

"Right of Conquest, Minister," Harry said.

Cornelius deflated.

"Now, see here, boy!" Madam Umbridge shrieked. "You cannot threaten the Minister of Magic! Show him the respect he's due!"

"Madam Undersecretary. I still haven't heard you say my apology."

"Your apology!"

"Yes, madam, but I can see that your manners are lacking. Don't worry, I shall not bother you with mere formalities; I can see you can't lower yourself to give me, 'a measly Half-blood', a proper response like I'm due."

"Why, you filthy blood—!" The witch aimed to fire with ill intentions in mind. Albus, reflexively, reacted with haste and stunned her, shocked that she would dare to try in his office. Her body dropped, bonelessly, to the floor, much to the horror of the Minister.

"Albus! That was a bit much!" he screeched.

But before he could apologize, Harry stepped in.

"She wanted to curse me, Minister—a minor. I don't even know how to defend myself properly," he said. "Why are you so on defensive when she was the one at fault? You saw her try to attack me with your own eyes."

"You provoked her!" he seethed, seeing red. "Dolores wouldn't have attacked anyone normally! Your mind games must end now!" Seeing the disbelief on everyone's faces, he gritted his teeth. "She wouldn't!"

"Mind games? Normally, sir?" Harry's mouth twitched.

Cornelius was beyond furious. "I know your tricks, boy! I know the kind of person you are! In the political arena… this means nothing—nothing! You can't prove anything!"

"Actually, Minister," Amelia cut in coolly, having already taken Madam Umbridge's wand from her collapsed form. "I can check her wand for curses right now. I suggest you stop talking before I deem your actions inexcusable."

Cornelius glared at her. "And you! You were supposed to be on my side!"

"I already told you, I'm in no one's side!" Amelia said. "I'm currently overseeing this interview, as you wanted me to—not that there's much to be interviewed here! You should be ashamed of yourself, Minister!"

Albus couldn't watch this anymore. "All right, that's enough!" he boomed.

"Albus! The boy has played you—all of you! You must see sense!" The newly-appointed Minister pled.

"Your own words have betrayed you today, Cornelius," Albus said sadly. "I fear I cannot support you after what I've seen today. Your actions have needlessly endangered lives today. You have threatened to send an eleven-year-old boy to Azkaban, tried to put words in his mouth for the sake of your agenda—at the cost of himself—and abducted him from his class. Alas, you have gone too far this time. You have no authority in Hogwarts."

The man's complexion might as well been made out of chalk. The current Minister of Magic glanced around the room and found no allies with him there. Finally, his gaze settled on the boy that had cut him off his knees so thoroughly.

Harry's face was painfully neutral, not even a glint of triumph escaped his two green abysses.

"You win, Potter," the Minister of Magic whispered. "I'll go over the trial's files."

"Good choice." The boy nodded. "There'd better be a trial soon, sir. Preferably in this week. I want this to be over with as soon as possible," Harry said.

Or he'll be taking over the Malfoy accounts, among many others. That'd be a huge blow to the current administration. Just because, coincidentally, the owner of those vaults was one of Cornelius' biggest supporters. Harry struck were it hurt, in the pocket.

_Ruthless,_ Albus lamented.

"And please tell Mr. Malfoy that I'll be awaiting his response," Harry said. "I'll be posting mine in the _Daily Prophet_. Tell him I'll wait eagerly for it—no response from him and I'll consider him just another elusive Death Eater. And Lucius doesn't want that, right?"

"I'll—I'll see what I can do," Cornelius gritted out.

"Before you go, sir…" Harry cocked his head considerately, "I'll need an Unbreakable Vow to make sure nothing happens to Sirius Black before the trial."

People gasped at the boy's request. It was a serious commitment to bind somebody to their word. To have the Minister of Magic risk his magic with an Unbreakable Vow… It was unprecedented with someone so young!

"Mr. Potter," Arnestus spoke up quietly from his sitting place. "I promise you, I'll keep a close eye in the comings and goings of the Ministry. If anything goes amiss, I will report it the moment I see it."

"And our Aurors won't let anyone touch a hair of Sirius Black," Albus said, receiving a stiff nod from Amelia. "Your Unbreakable Vow, although requested for good reasons, won't be necessary."

Harry looked at them in the eye, finally shaking his head.

"The Vow, Minister," Harry said.

Cornelius must have planned for something to happen to Sirius Black because he was particularly reluctant to step closer to the Boy Who Lived.

Harry grabbed the wizard's hand tightly, just as unwilling to let go.

"Madam Bones, would you be willing to be our Bonder?" Harry whispered, staring at Cornelius' worried frown.

"I—" Amelia wavered momentarily. Albus was about to speak up when she managed to gather her wits. "Yes."

"Come here."

Amelia came forward, pointing her wand to the joined hands.

"Will you, Cornelius, try to the best of your ability to guarantee the safety of Sirius Black until he's tried?"

Cornelius hesitated.

A thin fiery lace of magic surged from Amelia's wand started searing the man's hand before everyone's eyes.

A dawning sense of horror assaulted Albus.

"Yes—!" the Minister moaned because of the pain. The sting of flesh was fresh in the air.

"Will you, Cornelius, be fair during Sirius Black's and everyone else's trials?" Harry asked.

"Yes! Yes, I will, yes!" he immediately gasped.

The cord grew stronger and firmer. A gust of wind began to blow in his office, quaking off-balance the portraits and his gadgets. Albus' eyes grew wide when some of them began to topple from above, gadgets breaking and cracking without him being able to stop it.

He couldn't move. Somehow, someone had turned Hogwarts' wards against him, her Headmaster. The castle's magic was immobilizing him.

"Harry!" Albus yelled, realizing who was behind this. "You must stop this!"

"Will you, Cornelius Fudge, swear on your life and magic to try to assist me when I require aid?" Harry asked, pointedly ignoring him.

Amelia, just helpless as Albus, began to protest loudly as well. She began to call for her Aurors, her cries growing more and more desperate as she realized that no one was storming into the room to help them.

"YES!" Cornelius cried out.

Thicker and larger, the red wire that was the Unbreakable Vow started to feed on Cornelius blood, taking advantage of his weakness to prevent him getting out of their deal.

Arnestus, shell-shocked by the horrifying spectacle, finally had too much and dropped to the ground unconscious.

"Will you, Minister Fudge, assist me when I try to punish my enemies?"

"—allow me to take any necessary action against—?"

"—never willingly accept bribes from—?"

"—never bring me harm—?"

"Will you—?"

With this warped form of an Unbreakable Vow, Harry continued pushing for more concessions from Cornelius, until the man was a sobbing ball of pain—until the small man could not even utter the briefest of words—it was even worse than a Cruciatus Curse, something he'd never ever wanted to see.

Albus was staring at an apparition.

"Tom."

Harry was looking at the Minister of Magic with complete apathy. Amelia had had no chance against the reincarnated Dark Lord; he had dispatched her the moment he broke off the connection with Cornelius. When he turned to look at his frozen form, Harry smirked.

"Albus Dumbledore," he breathed. "Finally, face to face. Did you enjoy my little present?"

Albus was silent. He knew what he was talking about.

"How is this possible?" he asked.

Harry chuckled. "Everyone has something up their sleeve," he told him conspiratorially. The possessed boy looked him over. "You look far healthier than I expected you to be."

Fawkes. He needed Fawkes.

"Ah, your Phoenix," Harry nodded, satisfied. "You were the first thing he saw when he hatched. Now I understand."

Albus struggled.

"He won't come, your so-called creature of Light."

Something was squeezing his throat.

"Too easy," Harry told himself out loud.

Tom Riddle—the deadliest of his mistakes—so near… His magic was beginning to loosen his bounds; Albus could feel them give a little.

"How?" he choked out.

Harry—Tom—twirled his wand, a knowing glint to his eye.

"Magic."


End file.
